THE  WORKS  OF 

OSCAR  WILDE 

Raoenna  Edition 

IS  Volumes.  Uniform  in  Flexible  Leather 
and  Semi*Flexible  Cloth 

THE  PICTURE  OF  DORIAN  GRAY. 

LORD  ARTHUR  SAVILE'S  CRIME, 

AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  PADUA. 

LADY  WINDERMERE’S  FAN. 

A WOMAN  OF  NO  IMPORTANCE. 

AN  IDEAL  HUSBAND. 

THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  BEING  EARNEST. 

A HOUSE  OF  POMEGRANATES. 

INTENTIONS. 

ESSAYS. 

DE  PROFUNOI9  AND  PRISON  LETTERS. 
SALOME,  LA  SAINTE  COURTISANE. 

POEMS. 

VERA. 

A CRITIC  IN  PALL  MALL. 


The  Works  of 

Oscar  Wildcw 


Poems 

With 

The  Ballad  of  Reading 
Gaol 


G.  P.  Putnam’s  Sons 
New  York  and  London 
XLbc  Iknfcftecbocfter  press 


^33 


NOTE 

This  collection  of  Wilde's  Poems  contains  the  volume  of 
1881  in  its  entirety,  ‘ The  Sphinx,  ’ ‘ The  Ballad  of  Read- 
ing Gaol’  and  'Ravenna.'  Of  the  Uncollected  Poems 
published  in  the  Uniform  Edition  of  1908,  a few,  includ- 
ing the  Translations  from  the  Greek  and  the  Polish,  are 
omitted.  Particulars  as  to  the  original  publication  of 
each  poem  will  be  found  in  'A  Bibliography  of  the  Poems 
of  Oscar  Wilde,'  by  Stuart  Mason,  London,  1907. 


ROBERT  ROSS. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/poemswithballadoOOwild 


CONTENTS 

POEMS  (1881) : 

rAGB 

Helas  3 

Eleutheria  : 

Sonnet  to  Liberty  .......  7 

Ave  Imperatrix  8 

To  Blilton 14 

Louis  Napoleon  .......  15 

Sonnet  on  the  Massacre  of  the  Christians  in 

Bulgaria 16 

Quantum  Mutata 17 

Libertatis  Sacra  Fames  ......  18 

Theoretikos 19 

The  Garden  op  Eros  ......  2l 

Rosa  Mystica  : 

Requiescat  ........  39 

Sonnet  on  approaching  Italy 40 

San  Miuiato 41 

Ave  Maria  Gratia  Plena 42 

Italia  . ...  .....  43 

Sonnet  written  in  Holy  "Week  at  Genoa  . . 44 

Rome  Unvisited 45 

V 


Vi  POEMS 

PAGB 

Urbs  Sacra  iEterna  ......  49 

Sonnet  on  hearing  the  Dies  Irse  sung  in  the  Sistine 

Chapel .50 

Easter  Daj 51 

E Tenebris ,52 

Vita  Nuova ,53 

Madonna  IMia 54 

The  New  Helen 55 

The  Burden  of  Itys  .,.••••  61 

Wind  Flowers  : 

Impression  du  Matin 83 

Magdalen  Walks  84 

Athanasia 86 

Serenade ,89 

Endymion ,91 

La  Bella  Donna  della  mia  Mente  . • , . 93 

Chanson • « , 95 

Charmides •••97 

Flowers  of  Gold  : 

Impressions : i.  Les  Silhouettes  . , , , 135 

II.  La  Fuite  de  la  Lune  , , , 136 

The  Grave  of  Keats 137 

Theocritus : A Villanelle 138 

In  the  Gold  Room : A Harmony  ....  139 

Ballade  de  Marguerite 140 

The  Dole  of  the  King’s  Daughter  . , , , 143 

Amor  Intellectualis  ...,,,  145 

Santa  Decca , 146 

A Vision 147 

Impression  de  Voyage  .,••••  148 


CONTEN'IS 


vii 

PAGE 

The  Grave  of  Shelley  . • • • • 149 

By  the  Arno  ...•••••  150 

Impressions  db  Theatre  ; 

Fabien  del  Franchi • 155 

Phfedre 156 

Sonnets  written  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre 

I.  Portia  157 

II.  Queen  Henrietta  Maria  . • . • ■ 158 

III.  Gamma  ••..••••  159 

Panthea  . . . . 1 ( • • • 161 

The  Fourth  Movement: 

Impression : Le  R^veillon  • • • • • 175 

At  Verona 176 

Apologia 177 

Quia  Multum  Amavi 179 

Silentium  Amoris  180 

Her  Voice  181 

My  Voice 183 

Tsedium  Vitae  ••••••..  184 

Humanitad  185 

Flower  op  Love  : 

rAYKYniKPOS  EPnS 211 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS  (1876-1893) ; 

From  Spring  Days  to  Winter  . 217 

Tristitiae « ...  219 

The  True  Knowledge  . . 4 ■ • . 220 


viii  POEMS 

rAUB 

Impressions : i.  Le  Jardin  • • • • • 221 

II.  La  Mer 222 

Under  the  Balcony  223 

The  Harlot’s  House 225 

Le  Jardin  des  Tuileries 227 

On  the  Sale  by  Auction  of  Keats’  Love  Letters  . 228 

The  New  Remorse 229 

Fautaisies  Ddcoratives : i.  Le  Panneau  . . • 230 

II.  Les  Ballons  . • • 232 

Canzonet 233 

Symphony  in  Yellow 235 

In  the  Forest 236 

To  my  Wife : With  a Copy  of  my  Poems  . • 237 

With  a Copy  of  ‘A  House  of  Pomegranates’  • 238 

Roses  and  Rue, 239 

TH 10  SPHINX  (1894) 245 

THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  (1898)  . . 269 

RAVENNA  (1878,  . . . , . , .305 


:/?  ,'>w 

' ' -r  r 


\ 


\ 


POEMS 


niLAS! 

TO  drift  with  every  passion  till  my  soul 

Is  a stringed  lute  on  which  all  winds  can  play. 
Is  it  for  this  that  I have  given  away 
Mine  ancient  wisdom,  and  austere  control  f 
Methinks  my  life  is  a twice-written  scroll 
Scrawled  over  on  some  boyish  holiday 
^ With  idle  songs  for  pipe  and  virelay, 

Which  do  hut  mar  the  secret  of  the  whole. 

Surely  there  was  a time  I might  have  trod 
The  sunlit  heights,  and  from  life's  dissonance 
Struck  one  clear  chord  to  reach  the  ears  of  God: 

Is  iSat  time  dead  f lo  ! with  a little  rod 
I did  hut  touch  the  honey  of  romance — 

And  must  I lose  a souls  inheritance  f 


S 


4vi- 


ELEUTHERIA 


SONNET  TO  LIBERTY 

Not  that  I love  thy  children,  whose  dull  eyes 
See  nothing  save  their  own  unlovely  woe. 
Whose  minds  know  nothing,  nothing  care  to 
know, — 

But  that  the  roar  of  thy  Democracies, 

Thy  reigns  of  Terror,  thy  great  Anarchies, 

Mirror  my  wildest  passions  like  the  sea 

And  give  my  rage  a brother ! Liberty ! 

For  this  sake  only  do  thy  dissonant  cries 
Delight  my  discreet  soul,  else  might  all  kings 
By  bloody  knout  or  treacherous  cannonades 
Rob  nations  of  their  rights  inviolate 
And  I remain  unmoved — and  yet,  and  yet. 

These  Christs  that  die  upon  the  barricades, 

God  knows  it  I am  with  them,  in  some  things. 


7 


8 


POEMfi 


AVE  IMPERATRIX 

SET  in  this  stormy  Northern  sea, 

Queen  of  these  restless  fields  of  tide, 
England  ! what  shall  men  say  of  thee, 
Before  whose  feet  the  worlds  divide  ? 

The  earth,  a brittle  globe  of  glass. 

Lies  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand. 

And  through  its  heart  of  crystal  pass. 

Like  shadows  through  a twilight  land. 

The  spears  of  crimson-suited  war. 

The  long  white-crested  waves  of  fight. 
And  all  the  deadly  fires  which  are 
The  torches  of  the  lords  of  Night. 

The  yellow  leopards,  strained  and  lean. 

The  treacherous  Russian  knows  so  well. 
With  gaping  blackened  jaws  are  seen 

Leap  through  the  hail  of  screaming  shell. 

The  strong  sea-lion  of  England’s  wars 
Hath  left  his  sapphire  cave  of  sea, 

To  battle  with  the  storm  that  mars 
The  stars  of  England’s  chivalry. 


AVE  IMPERATRIX 


9 


The  brazen-throated  clarion  blows 
Across  the  Pathan’s  reedy  fen. 

And  the  high  steeps  of  Indian  snows 
Shake  to  the  tread  of  armed  men. 

And  many  an  Afghan  chief,  who  lies 
Beneath  his  cool  pomegranate-trees. 
Clutches  his  sword  in  fierce  surmise 
When  on  the  mountain-side  he  sees 

The  fleet-foot  Marri  scout,  who  comes 
To  tell  how  he  hath  heard  afar 
The  measured  roll  of  English  drums 
Beat  at  the  gates  of  Kandahar. 

For  southern  wind  and  east  wind  meet 

Where,  girt  and  crowned  by  sword  and  fire, 
England  with  bare  and  bloody  feet 
Climbs  the  steep  road  of  wide  empire. 

O lonely  Himalayan  height, 

Grey  pillar  of  the  Indian  sky. 

Where  saw’st  thou  last  in  clanging  flight 
Our  winged  dogs  of  Victory  ? 

The  almond-groves  of  Samarcand, 

Bokhara,  where  red  lilies  blow, 

And  Oxus,  by  whose  yellow  sand 

The  grave  white-turbaned  merchants  go: 


10 


POEMS 


And  on  from  thence  to  Ispahan^ 

The  gilded  garden  of  the  sun. 

Whence  the  long  dusty  caravan 
Brings  cedar  wood  and  vermilion ; 

And  that  dread  city  of  Cabool 

Set  at  the  mountain’s  scarped  feet. 

Whose  marble  tanks  are  ever  full 
With  water  for  the  noonday  heat : 

Where  through  the  narrow  straight  Bazaar 
A little  maid  Circassian 

Is  led,  a present  from  the  Czar 

Unto  some  old  and  bearded  khan, — 

Here  have  our  wild  war-eagles  flown. 

And  flapped  wide  wings  in  fiery  fight ; 

But  the  sad  dove,  that  sits  alone 
In  England — she  hath  no  delight. 

In  vain  the  laughing  girl  will  lean 
To  greet  her  love  with  love-lit  eyes : 

Down  in  some  treacherous  black  ravine. 
Clutching  his  flag,  the  dead  boy  lies. 

And  many  a moon  and  sun  will  see 
The  lingering  wistful  children  wait 

To  climb  upon  their  father’s  knee ; 

And  in  each  house  made  desolate 


AVE  IMPERATRIX 


11 


Pale  women  who  have  lost  their  lord 
Will  kiss  the  relics  of  the  slain — 

Some  tarnished  epaulette — some  sword — 
Poor  toys  to  soothe  such  anguished  pain. 

For  not  in  quiet  English  fields 

Are  these,  our  brothers,  lain  to  rest. 

Where  we  might  deck  their  broken  shields 
With  all  the  flowers  the  dead  love  best. 

For  some  are  by  the  Delhi  walls. 

And  many  in  the  Afghan  land. 

And  many  where  the  Ganges  falls 

Through  seven  mouths  of  shifting  sand. 

And  some  in  Russian  waters  lie. 

And  others  in  the  seas  which  are 

The  portals  to  the  East,  or  by 

The  wind-swept  heights  of  Trafalgar. 

O wandering  graves  I O restless  sleep  I 
O silence  of  the  sunless  day  ! 

O still  ravine  ! O stormy  deep  ! 

Give  up  your  prey ! Give  up  your  prey! 

And  thou  whose  wounds  are  never  healed. 
Whose  weary  race  is  never  won, 

O Cromwell’s  England  I must  thou  yield 
For  every  inch  of  ground  a son  ? 


12 


POEMS 


Go ! crown  with  thorns  thy  gold-crowned  head, 
Change  thy  glad  song  to  song  of  pain  ; 

Wind  and  wild  wave  have  got  thy  dead, 

And  will  not  yield  them  back  again. 


Wave  and  wild  wind  and  foreign  shore 
Possess  the  flower  of  English  land — 

Lips  that  thy  lips  shall  kiss  no  more. 

Hands  that  shall  never  clasp  thy  hand. 

What  profit  now  that  we  have  bound 

The  whole  round  world  with  nets  of  gold. 

If  hidden  in  our  heart  is  found 
The  care  that  groweth  never  old? 

What  profit  that  our  galleys  ride, 
Pine-forest-like,  on  every  main  ? 

Ruin  and  wreck  are  at  our  side. 

Grim  warders  of  the  House  of  Pain. 

Where  are  the  brave,  the  strong,  the  fleet  ? 
Where  is  our  English  chivalry  ? 

Wild  grasses  are  their  burial-sheet. 

And  sobbing  waves  their  threnody. 

O loved  ones  lying  far  away. 

What  word  of  love  can  dead  lips  send  ! 

O wasted  dust ! O senseless  clay  I 
Is  this  the  end  ! is  this  the  end  ! 


AVE  IMPERATRIX 


13 


Peace,  peace  ! we  wrong  the  noble  dead 
To  vex  their  solemn  slumber  so ; 

Though  childless,  and  with  thorn-crowned  head, 
Up  the  steep  road  must  England  go. 

Yet  when  this  fiery  web  is  spun. 

Her  watchmen  shall  descry  from  far 
The  young  Republic  like  a sun 

Rise  from  these  crimson  seas  of  wat 


14 


POEMS 


TO  MILTON 

Milton  ! I think  thy  spirit  hath  passed 
away 

From  these  white  cliffs  and  high-embattled 
towers ; 

This  gorgeous  fiery-coloured  world  of  ours 
Seems  fallen  into  ashes  dull  and  grey. 

And  the  age  changed  unto  a mimic  play 
Wherein  we  waste  our  else  too-crowded 
hours : 

For  all  our  pomp  and  pageantry  and  powers 
We  are  but  fit  to  delve  the  common  clay. 

Seeing  this  little  isle  on  which  we  stand. 

This  England,  this  sea-lion  of  the  sea, 

By  ignorant  demagogues  is  held  in  fee. 

Who  love  her  not : Dear  God ! is  this  the  land 
Which  bare  a triple  empire  in  her  hand 
When  Cromwell  spake  the  word  Democracy ! 


ELEUTHERU 


U 


LOUIS  NAPOLEON 

Eagle  of  Austerlltz  l where  were  thy  wings 
When  far  away  upon  a barbarous  strand. 
In  fight  unequal,  by  an  obscure  hand. 
Fell  the  last  scion  of  thy  brood  of  Kings  ! 

Poor  boy  ! thou  shalt  not  flaunt  thy  cloak  of  red. 
Or  ride  in  state  through  Paris  in  the  van 
Of  thy  returning  legions,  but  instead 
Thy  mother  France,  free  and  republican. 

Shall  on  thy  dead  and  crownless  forehead  place 
The  better  laurels  of  a soldier’s  crown. 

That  not  dishonoured  should  thy  soul  go 
down 

To  tell  the  mighty  Sire  of  thy  race 

That  France  hath  kissed  the  mouth  of  Liberty, 
And  found  it  sweeter  than  his  honied  bees. 
And  that  the  giant  wave  Democracy 
Breaks  on  the  shores  where  Kings  lay  couched 
at  ease. 


16 


POEMa 


SONNET 


ON  THE  MASSACRE  OF  THE  CHRISTIANS 
IN  BULGARIA 

HRIST,  dost  thou  live  indeed?  or  are  th) 


Still  straitened  in  their  rock-hewn  sepulchre  ? 
And  was  thy  Rising  only  dreamed  by  Her 
Whose  love  of  thee  for  all  her  sin  atones  ? 

For  here  the  air  is  horrid  with  men’s  groans. 

The  priests  who  call  upon  thy  name  are  slain. 
Dost  thou  not  hear  the  bitter  wail  of  pain 
From  those  whose  children  lie  upon  the  stones  ? 
Come  down,  O Son  of  God  I incestuous  gloom 
Curtains  the  land,  and  through  the  starless  night 
Over  thy  Cross  a Crescent  moon  I see  ! 

If  thou  in  very  truth  didst  burst  the  tomb 
Come  down,  O Son  of  Man  ! and  show  th^^ 
might. 

Lest  Mahomet  be  crowned  instead  of  Thee  ! 


bones 


ELEUTHERIA 


17 


QUANTUM  MUTATA 

There  was  a time  in  Europe  long  ago 

When  no  man  died  for  freedom  anywhere, 
But  England’s  lion  leaping  from  its  lair 
Laid  hands  on  the  oppressor ! it  was  so 
While  England  could  a great  Republic  show. 
Witness  the  men  of  Piedmont,  chiefest  care 
Of  Cromwell,  when  with  impotent  despair 
The  Pontiff  in  his  painted  portico 
Trembled  before  our  stern  ambassadors. 

How  comes  it  then  that  from  such  high  estate 
We  have  thus  fallen,  save  that  Luxury 
With  barren  merchandise  piles  up  the  gate 
Where  noble  thoughts  and  deeds  should  enter 
by: 

Else  might  we  still  be  Milton’s  heritors. 


■ 


18 


POEMS 


LIBERTATIS  SACRA  FAMES 

A LBEIT  nurtured  in  democracy. 

And  liking  best  that  state  republican 
Where  every  man  is  Kinglike  and  no  man 
Is  crowned  above  his  fellows,  yet  I see. 

Spite  of  this  modern  fret  for  Liberty, 

Better  the  rule  of  One,  whom  all  obey. 

Than  to  let  clamorous  demagogues  betray 
Our  freedom  with  the  kiss  of  anarchy. 

Wherefore  I love  them  not  whose  hands  profane 
Plant  the  red  flag  upon  the  piled-up  street 
For  no  right  cause,  beneath  whose  ignorant 
reign 

Arts,  Culture,  Reverence,  Honour,  all  things 
fade. 

Save  Treason  and  the  dagger  of  her  trade. 

Or  Murder  with  his  silent  bloody  feet. 


ELEUTHERIA 


19 


THEORETIKOS 

HIS  mighty  empire  hath  but  feet  of  clay  ; 


Of  all  its  ancient  chivalry  and  might 
Our  little  island  is  forsaken  quite  : 

Some  enemy  hath  stolen  its  crown  of  bay. 

And  from  its  hills  that  voice  hath  passed  away 
Which  spake  of  Freedom  : O come  out  of  it, 
Come  out  of  it,  my  Soul,  thou  art  not  fit 
For  this  vile  traffic-house,  where  day  by  day 
Wisdom  and  reverence  are  sold  at  mart. 

And  the  rude  people  rage  with  ignorant  cries 
Against  an  heritage  of  centuries. 

It  mars  my  calm  : wherefore  in  dreams  of  Art 
And  loftiest  culture  I would  stand  apart, 
Neither  for  God,  nor  for  his  enemies. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


IT  is  full  summer  now,  the  heart  of  June; 

Not  yet  the  sunburnt  reapers  are  astir 
Upon  the  upland  meadow  where  too  soon 
Rich  autumn  time,  the  season’s  usurer. 

Will  lend  his  hoarded  gold  to  all  the  trees. 

And  see  his  treasure  scattered  by  the  wild  and 
spendthrift  breeze. 

Too  soon  indeed ! yet  here  the  daffodil. 

That  love-child  of  the  Spring,  has  lingered  on 
To  vex  the  rose  with  jealousy,  and  still 
The  harebell  spreads  her  azure  pavilion. 

And  like  a strayed  and  wandering  reveller 
Abandoned  of  its  brothers,  whom  long  since 
June’s  messenger 

The  missel-thrush  has  frighted  from  the  glade. 
One  pale  narcissus  loiters  fearfully 
Close  to  a shadowy  nook,  where  half  afraid 
Of  their  own  loveliness  some  violets  lie 
That  will  not  look  the  gold  sun  in  the  face 
For  fear  of  too  much  splendour, — ah  ! methinks 
it  is  a place 


24 


POEMS 


Which  should  be  trodden  by  Persephone 
When  wearied  of  the  flowerless  fields  of  Dis ! 
Or  danced  on  by  the  lads  of  Arcady ! 

The  hidden  secret  of  eternal  bliss 
Known  to  the  Grecian  here  a man  might  find, 
Ah  ! you  and  I may  find  it  now  if  Love  and 
Sleep  be  kind. 


There  are  the  flowers  which  mourning  Herakles 
Strewed  on  the  tomb  of  Hylas,  columbine. 

Its  white  doves  all  a-flutter  where  the  breeze 
Kissed  them  too  harshly,  the  small  celandine 
That  yellow-kirtled  chorister  of  eve. 

And  lilac  lady’s-smock, — but  let  them  bloom 
alone,  and  leave 


Yon  spired  hollyhock  red-crocketed 

To  sway  its  silent  chimes,  else  must  the  bee, 
Its  little  bellringer,  go  seek  instead 
Some  other  pleasaunce  ; the  anemone 
That  weeps  at  daybreak,  like  a silly  girl 
Before  her  love,  and  hardly  lets  the  butterflies 
unfurl 


Their  painted  wings  beside  it, — bid  it  pine 
In  pale  virginity  ; the  winter  snow 
Will  suit  it  better  than  those  lips  of  thine 
Whose  fires  would  but  scorch  it,  rather  go 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


25 


And  pluck  that  amorous  flower  which  blooms 
alone. 

Fed  by  the  pander  wind  with  dust  of  kisses  not 
its  own. 

The  trumpet-mouths  of  red  convolvulus 

So  dear  to  maidens,  creamy  meadow-sweet 
Whiter  than  Juno’s  throat  and  odorous 
As  all  Arabia,  hyacinths  the  feet 
Of  Huntress  Dian  would  be  loth  to  mar 
For  any  dappled  fawn, — pluck  these,  and  those 
fond  flowers  which  are 


Fairer  than  what  Queen  Venus  trod  upon 
Beneath  the  pines  of  Ida,  eucharis. 

That  morning  star  which  does  not  dread  the  sun. 
And  budding  marjoram  which  but  to  kiss 
Would  sweeten  Cytheraea’s  lips  and  make 
Adonis  jealous, — these  for  thy  head, — and  for 
thy  girdle  take 

Yon  curving  spray  of  purple  clematis 

Whose  gorgeous  dye  outflames  the  Tyrian 
King, 

And  foxgloves  with  their  nodding  chalices, 

But  that  one  narciss  which  the  startled  Spring 
Let  from  her  kirtle  fall  when  first  she  heard 
In  her  own  woods  the  wild  tempestuous  song  of 
summer’s  bird. 


26 


POEMS 


Ah ! leave  it  for  a subtle  memory 

Of  those  sweet  tremulous  days  of  rain  and  sun, 
When  April  laughed  between  her  tears  to  see 
The  early  primrose  with  shy  footsteps  run 
From  the  gnarled  oak-tree  roots  till  all  the  wold. 
Spite  of  its  brown  and  trampled  leaves,  grew 
bright  with  shimmering  gold. 


Nay,  pluck  it  too,  it  is  not  half  so  sweet 
As  thou  thyself,  my  soul’s  idolatry ! 

And  when  thou  art  a-wearied  at  thy  feet 
Shall  oxlips  weave  their  brightest  tapestry. 
For  thee  the  woodbine  shall  forget  its  pride 
And  veil  its  tangled  whorls,  and  thou  shalt 
walk  on  daisies  pied. 


And  I will  cut  a reed  by  yonder  spring 

And  make  the  wood-gods  jealous,  and  old  Pan 
Wonder  what  young  intruder  dares  to  sing 

In  these  still  haunts,  where  never  foot  of  man 
Should  tread  at  evening,  lest  he  chance  to  spy 
The  marble  limbs  of  Artemis  and  all  her 
company. 


And  I will  tell  thee  why  the  jacinth  wears 
Such  dread  embroidery  of  dolorous  moan. 
And  why  the  hapless  nightingale  forbears 
To  sing  her  song  at  noon,  but  weeps  alone 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


27 


When  the  fleet  swallow  sleeps,  and  rich  men 
feast. 

And  why  the  laurel  trembles  when  she  sees  the 
lightening  east. 


And  I will  sing  how  sad  Proserpina 

Unto  a grave  and  gloomy  Lord  was  wed. 

And  lure  the  silver-breasted  Helena 

Back  from  the  lotus  meadows  of  the  dead, 

So  shalt  thou  see  that  awful  loveliness 
For  which  two  mighty  Hosts  met  fearfully  in 
war’s  abyss ! 


And  then  I ’ll  pipe  to  thee  that  Grecian  tale 
How  Cynthia  loves  the  lad  Endymion, 

And  hidden  in  a grey  and  misty  veil 

Hies  to  the  clifl’s  of  Latmos  once  the  Sun 
Leaps  from  his  ocean  bed  in  fruitless  chase 
Of  those  pale  flying  feet  which  fade  away  in  his 
embrace. 


And  if  my  flute  can  breathe  sweet  melody, 

We  may  behold  Her  face  who  long  ago 
Dwelt  among  men  by  the  iEgean  sea. 

And  whose  sad  house  with  pillaged  portico 
And  friezeless  wall  and  columns  toppled  down 
Looms  o’er  the  ruins  of  that  fair  and  violet 
cinctured  town. 


28 


POEMS 


Spirit  of  Beauty  ! tarry  still  awhile. 

They  are  not  dead,  thine  ancient  votaries ; 
Some  few  there  are  to  whom  thy  radiant  smile 
Is  better  than  a thousand  victories. 

Though  all  the  nobly  slain  of  Waterloo 
Rise  up  in  wrath  against  them  ! tarry  still,  there 
are  a few 


Who  for  thy  sake  would  give  their  manlihood 
And  consecrate  their  being ; I at  least 
Have  done  so,  made  thy  lips  my  daily  food. 

And  in  thy  temples  found  a goodlier  feast 
Than  this  starved  age  can  give  me,  spite  of  all 
Its  new-found  creeds  so  sceptical  and  so  dog- 
matical. 


Here  not  Cephissos,  not  Ilissos  flows. 

The  woods  of  white  Colonos  are  not  here, 

On  our  bleak  hills  the  olive  never  blow  s. 

No  simple  priest  conducts  his  lowing  steer 
Up  the  steep  marble  way,  nor  through  the  town 
Do  laughing  maidens  bear  to  thee  the  crocus- 
flowered  gown. 


Yet  tarry ! for  the  boy  who  loved  thee  best. 
Whose  very  name  should  be  a memory 
To  make  thee  linger,  sleeps  in  silent  rest 
Beneath  the  Roman  walls,  and  melody 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


29 


Still  mourns  her  sweetest  lyre ; none  can  play 
The  lute  of  Adonais : with  his  lips  Song  passed 
away. 


Nay,  when  Keats  died  the  Muses  still  had  left 
One  silver  voice  to  sing  his  threnody, 

But  ah  ! too  soon  of  it  we  were  bereft 

When  on  that  riven  night  and  stormy  sea 
Panthea  claimed  her  singer  as  her  own. 

And  slew  the  mouth  that  praised  her ; since 
which  time  we  walk  alone. 


Save  for  that  fiery  heart,  that  morning  star 
Of  re-arisen  England,  whose  clear  eye 
Saw  from  our  tottering  throne  and  waste  of 
war 

The  grand  Greek  limbs  of  young  Democracy 
Rise  mightily  like  Hesperus  and  bring 
The  great  Republic  ! him  at  least  thy  love  hath 
taught  to  sing. 


And  he  hath  been  with  thee  at  Thessaly, 

And  seen  white  Atalanta  fleet  of  foot 
In  passionless  and  fierce  virginity 

Hunting  the  tusked  boar,  his  honied  lute 
Hath  pierced  the  cavern  of  the  hollow  hill. 

And  Venus  laughs  to  know  one  knee  will  bow 
before  her  stilL 


30 


POEMS 


And  he  hath  kissed  the  lips  of  Proserpine, 

And  sung  the  Galilaean’s  requiem, 

That  wounded  forehead  dashed  with  blood  and 
wine 

He  hath  discrowned,  the  Ancient  Gods  in  him 
Have  found  their  last,  most  ardent  worshipper. 
And  the  new  Sign  grows  grey  and  dim  before  its 
conqueror. 

Spirit  of  Beauty  ! tarry  with  us  still. 

It  is  not  quenched  the  torch  of  poesy. 

The  star  that  shook  above  the  Eastern  hill 
Holds  unassailed  its  argent  armoury 
From  all  the  gathering  gloom  and  fretful  fight — 
O tarry  with  us  still ! for  through  the  long  and 
common  night, 

Morris,  our  sweet  and  simple  Chaucer’s  child. 
Dear  heritor  of  Spenser’s  tuneful  reed. 

With  soft  and  sylvan  pipe  has  oft  beguiled 
The  weary  soul  of  man  in  troublous  need. 

And  from  the  far  and  flowerless  fields  of  ice 
Has  brought  fair  flowers  to  make  an  earthly 
paradise. 

We  know  them  all,  Gudrun  the  strong  men*f 
bride, 

Aslaug  and  Olafson  we  know  them  all. 

How  giant  Grettir  fought  and  Sigurd  died. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


81 


And  what  enchantment  held  the  king  in  thrall 
When  lonely  Brynhild  wrestled  with  the  powers 
That  war  against  all  passion,  ah ! how  oft 
through  summer  hours. 

Long  listless  summer  hours  when  the  noon 
Being  enamoured  of  a damask  rose 
Forgets  to  journey  westward,  till  the  moon 
The  pale  usurper  of  its  tribute  grows 
From  a thin  sickle  to  a silver  shield 
And  chides  its  loitering  car — how  oft,  in  some 
cool  grassy  field 

Far  from  the  cricket-ground  and  noisy  eight, 

At  Bagley,  where  the  rustling  bluebells  come 
Almost  before  the  blackbird  finds  a mate 
And  overstay  the  swallow,  and  the  hum 
Of  many  murmuring  bees  flits  through  the 
leaves. 

Have  I lain  poring  on  the  dreamy  tales  his  fancy 
weaves. 

And  through  their  unreal  woes  and  mimic  pain 
Wept  for  myself,  and  so  was  purified, 

And  in  their  simple  mirth  grew  glad  again ; 

For  as  I sailed  upon  that  pictured  tide 
The  strength  and  splendour  of  the  storm  was 
mine 

Without  the  storm’s  red  ruin,  for  the  singer  is 
divine ; 


32 


POEMS 


The  little  laugh  of  water  falling  down 
Is  not  so  musical,  the  clammy  gold 
Close  hoarded  in  the  tiny  waxen  town 
Has  less  of  sweetness  in  it,  and  the  old 
Half-withered  reeds  that  waved  in  Arcady 
Touched  by  his  lips  break  forth  again  to  fresher 
harmony. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  tarry  yet  awhile  ! 

Although  the  cheating  merchants  of  the  mart 
With  iron  roads  profane  our  lovely  isle. 

And  break  on  whirling  wheels  the  limbs  of  Art, 
Ay  ! though  the  crowded  factories  beget 
The  blindworm  Ignorance  that  slays  the  soul,  O 
tarry  yet ! 

For  One  at  least  there  is, — He  bears  his  name 
From  Dante  and  the  seraph  Gabriel, — 

Whose  double  laurels  burn  with  deathless  flame 
To  light  thine  altar ; He  too  loves  thee  well. 
Who  saw  old  Merlin  lured  in  Vivien’s  snare. 

And  the  white  feet  of  angels  coming  down  the 
golden  stair. 

Loves  thee  so  well,  that  all  the  World  for  him 
A gorgeous-coloured  vestiture  must  wear. 

And  Sorrow  take  a purple  diadem. 

Or  else  be  no  more  Sorrow,  and  Despair 
Gild  its  own  thorns,  and  Pain,  like  Adon,  be 
Kven  in  anguish  beautiful ; — such  is  the  empery 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


33 


Which  Painters  hold,  and  such  the  heritage 
This  gentle  solemn  Spirit  doth  possess, 

Being  a better  mirror  of  his  age 
In  all  his  pity,  love,  and  weariness. 

Than  those  who  can  but  copy  common  things. 
And  leave  the  Soul  unpainted  with  its  might}- 
questionings. 


But  they  are  few,  and  all  romance  has  flown. 
And  men  can  prophesy  about  the  sun. 

And  lecture  on  his  arrows — how,  alone. 

Through  a waste  void  the  soulless  atoms  run. 
How  from  each  tree  its  weeping  nymph  has  fled. 
And  that  no  more  ’mid  English  reeds  a Naiad 
shows  her  head. 


Methinks  these  new  Actaeons  boast  too  soon 
That  they  have  spied  on  beauty  ; what  if  we 
Have  analysed  the  rainbow,  robbed  the  moon 
Of  her  most  ancient,  chastest  mystery. 

Shall  I,  the  last  Endymion,  lose  all  hope 
Because  rude  eyes  peer  at  my  mistress  through 
a telescope ! 


What  profit  if  this  scientific  age 

Burst  through  our  gates  with  all  its  retinue 
Of  modern  miracles  ! Can  it  assuage 

One  lover’s  breaking  heart } what  can  it  do 

C 


34 


POEMS 


To  make  one  life  more  beautiful,  one  day 
More  godlike  in  its  period  ? but  now  the  Agt  of 
Clay- 


Returns  in  horrid  cycle,  and  the  earth 
Hath  borne  again  a noisy  progeny 
Of  ignorant  Titans,  whose  ungodly  birth 
Hurls  them  against  the  august  hierarchy 
Which  sat  upon  Olympus ; to  the  Dust 
They  have  appealed,  and  to  that  barren  arbiter 
they  must 


Repair  for  judgment ; let  them,  if  they  can. 
From  Natural  Warfare  and  insensate  Chance, 
Create  the  new  Ideal  rule  for  man  ! 

Methinks  that  was  not  my  inheritance ; 

For  I was  nurtured  otherwise,  my  soul 
Passes  from  higher  heights  of  life  to  a more 
supreme  goal. 


Lo ! while  we  spake  the  earth  did  turn  away 
Her  visage  from  the  God,  and  Hecate’s  boat 
Rose  silver-laden,  till  the  jealous  day 
Blew  all  its  torches  out : I did  not  note 
The  waning  hours,  to  young  Endymions 
Time’s  palsied  fingers  count  in  vain  his  rosary  of 
suns ! 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EROS 


86 


Mark  how  the  yellow  iris  wearily 

Leans  back  its  throat,  as  though  it  would  be 
kissed 

By  its  false  chamberer,  the  dragon-fly. 

Who,  like  a blue  vein  on  a girl’s  white  wrist. 
Sleeps  on  that  snowy  primrose  of  the  night, 
Which  ’gins  to  flush  with  crimson  shame,  and 
die  beneath  the  light. 


Come  let  us  go,  against  the  pallid  shield 

Of  the  wan  sky  the  almond  blossoms  gleam. 
The  corncrake  nested  in  the  unmown  field 
Answers  its  mate,  across  the  misty  stream 
On  fitful  wing  the  startled  curlews  fly. 

And  in  his  sedgy  bed  the  lark,  for  joy  that  Day 
is  nigh. 

Scatters  the  pearled  dew  from  off  the  grass. 

In  tremulous  ecstasy  to  greet  the  sun. 

Who  soon  in  gilded  panoply  will  pass 

Forth  from  yon  orange-curtained  pavilion 
Hung  in  the  burning  east : see,  the  red  rim 
O’ertops  the  expectant  hills  ] it  is  the  God  I for 
love  of  him 

Already  the  shrill  lark  is  out  of  sight. 

Flooding  with  waves  of  song  this  silent 

dcU,— 


36 


POEMS 


Ah!  there  is  something  more  in  that  bird's 
flight 

Than  could  be  tested  in  a crucible  ! — 

But  the  air  freshens,  let  us  go,  why  soon 
The  woodmen  will  be  here ; how  we  have  lived 
this  night  of  June  i 


ROSA  MYSTICA 


REQUIESCAT 


Tread  lightly,  she  is  near 
Under  the  snow, 

Speak  gently,  she  can  hear 
The  daisies  grow. 

All  her  bright  golden  hair 
Tarnished  with  rust. 

She  that  was  young  and  fair 
Fallen  to  dust. 

Lily-like,  white  as  snow, 

She  hardly  knew 
She  was  a woman,  so 
Sweetly  she  grew. 

Coffin-board,  heavy  stone. 

Lie  on  her  breast, 

I vex  my  heart  alone. 

She  is  at  rest. 

Peace,  Peace,  she  cannot  hear 
Lyre  or  sonnet. 

All  my  life 's  buried  here. 
Heap  earth  upon  it. 


Avignon. 


40 


POEMS 


SONNET  ON  APPROACHING  ITALY 

I REACHED  the  Alps : the  soul  within  me 
burned, 

Italia,  my  Italia,  at  thy  name  : 

And  when  from  out  the  mountain’s  heart  I 
came 

And  saw  the  land  for  which  my  life  had  yearned 
I laughed  as  one  who  some  great  prize  had 
earned : 

And  mousing  on  the  marvel  of  thy  fame 
I watched  the  day,  till  marked  with  wounds 
of  flame 

The  turquoise  sky  to  burnished  gold  was  turned. 
The  pine-trees  waved  as  waves  a woman’s  hair. 
And  in  the  orchards  every  twining  spray 
Was  breaking  into  flakes  of  blossoming  foam ; 
But  when  I knew  that  far  away  at  Rome 
In  evil  bonds  a second  Peter  lay, 

I wept  to  see  the  land  so  very  fair. 


Turin. 


ROSA  MYSTICA 


41 


SAN  MINIATO 

SEE,  I have  climbed  the  mountain  side 
Up  to  this  holy  house  of  God, 

Where  once  that  Angel- Painter  trod 
Who  saw  the  heavens  opened  wide. 

And  throned  upon  the  crescent  moon 
The  Virginal  white  Queen  of  Grace, — 
Mary ! could  I but  see  thy  face 
Death  could  not  come  at  all  too  soon 

O crowned  by  God  with  thorns  and  pain  ' 
Mother  of  Christ ! O mystic  wife  I 
My  heart  is  weary  of  this  life 
And  over-sad  to  sing  again. 

O crowned  by  God  with  love  and  flame  I 
O crowned  by  Christ  the  Holy  One ! 

O listen  ere  the  searching  sun 
Show  to  the  world  my  sin  and  shame. 


42 


POEMS 


AVE  MARIA  GRATIA  PLENA 

AS  this  His  coming!  I had  hoped  to 


A scene  of  wondrous  glory,  as  was  told 
Of  some  great  God  who  in  a rain  of  gold 
Broke  open  bars  and  fell  on  Danae : 

Or  a dread  vision  as  when  Semele 

Sickening  for  love  and  unappeased  desire 
Prayed  to  see  God’s  clear  body,  and  the  fire 
Caught  her  brown  limbs  and  slew  her  utterly  : 
With  such  glad  dreams  I sought  this  holy  place. 
And  now  with  wondering  eyes  and  heart  I 
stand 

Before  this  supreme  mystery  of  Love  : 

Some  kneeling  girl  with  passionless  pale  face, 
An  angel  with  a lily  in  his  hand. 

And  over  both  the  white  wings  of  a Dove. 


see 


Flobence. 


KOSA  MYSTICA 


ITALIA 

ITALIA  ! thou  art  fallen,  though  with  sheen 
Of  battle-spears  thy  clamorous  armies  stride 
From  the  north  Alps  to  the  Sicilian  tide ! 

Ay ! fallen,  though  the  nations  hail  thee  Queen 
Because  rich  gold  in  every  town  is  seen. 

And  on  thy  sapphire-lake  in  tossing  pride 
Of  wind-filled  vans  thy  myriad  galleys  ride 
Beneath  one  flag  of  red  and  white  and  green. 

O Fair  and  Strong  ! O Strong  and  Fair  in  vain  I 
Look  southward  where  Rome’s  desecrated 
town 

Lies  mourning  for  her  God-anointed  King  ! 
Look  heaven-ward  ! shall  God  allow  this  thing  ? 
Nay ! but  some  flame-girt  Raphael  shall  come 
down, 

And  smite  the  Spoiler  with  the  sword  of  pain. 
Venice. 


44  • 


POEMS 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  IN  HOLY  WEEK  AT  GENOA 

I WANDERED  through  Scoglietto's  fai 
retreat. 

The  oranges  on  each  o’erhanging  spray 
Burned  as  bright  lamps  of  gold  to  shame  the 
day  ; 

Some  startled  bird  with  fluttering  wings  and 
fleet 

Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms ; at  my  feet 
Like  silver  moons  the  pale  narcissi  lay  : 

And  the  curved  waves  that  streaked  the  great 
green  bay 

Laughed  i’  the  sun,  and  life  seemed  very  sweet. 
Outside  the  young  boy-priest  passed  singing 
clear, 

* Jesus  the  son  of  Mary  has  been  slain, 

O come  and  fill  his  sepulchre  with  flowers.* 
Ah,  God  ! Ah,  God  I those  dear  Hellenic  hours 
Had  drowned  all  memory  of  Thy  bitter  pain. 
The  Cross,  the  Crown,  the  Soldiers  and  the 
Spear. 


ROSA  MYSTICA 


46 


ROME  UNVISITED 


The  corn  has  turned  from  grey  to  red, 
Since  first  my  spirit  wandered  forth, 
From  the  drear  cities  of  the  north, 

And  to  Italia’s  mountains  fled. 

And  here  I set  my  face  towards  home, 

For  all  my  pilgrimage  is  done, 

Although,  methinks,  yon  blood-red  sun 
Marshals  the  way  to  Holy  Rome. 

O Blessed  Lady,  who  dost  hold 
Upon  the  seven  hills  thy  reign  ! 

O Mother  without  blot  or  stain. 

Crowned  with  bright  crowns  of  triple  gold  . 

O Roma,  Roma,  at  thy  feet 
I lay  this  barren  gift  of  song  ! 

For,  ah  ! the  way  is  steep  and  long 
That  leads  unto  thy  sacred  street. 


46 


POEMS 


n 


AND  yet  what  joy  it  were  for  me 
To  turn  my  feet  unto  the  south. 

And  journeying  towards  the  Tiber  mouth 
To  kneel  again  at  Fiesole  I 


And  wandering  through  the  tangled  pines 
That  break  the  gold  of  Amo’s  stream. 
To  see  the  purple  mist  and  gleam 
Of  morning  on  the  Apennines. 

By  many  a vineyard-hidden  home, 
Orchard  and  olive-garden  grey. 

Till  from  the  drear  Campagna’s  way 
The  seven  hills  bear  up  the  dome  I 


ROME  UNVISITED 


47 


in 

A PILGRIM  from  the  northern  seas — 
What  joy  for  me  to  seek  alone 
The  wondrous  Temple  and  the  throne 
Of  Him  who  holds  the  awful  keys  ! 

When,  bright  with  purple  and  with  gold. 
Come  priest  and  holy  Cardinal, 

And  borne  above  the  heads  of  all 
The  gentle  Shepherd  of  the  Fold. 

O joy  to  see  before  I die 

The  only  God-anointed  King, 

And  hear  the  silver  trumpets  ring 
A triumph  as  He  passes  by  ! 

Or  at  the  brazen-pillared  shrine 
Holds  high  the  mystic  sacrifice. 

And  shows  his  God  to  human  eyes 
Beneath  the  veil  of  bread  and  wine. 


48 


rOEMS 


IV 

For  lo,  what  changes  time  can  bring ! 
The  cycles  of  revolving  years 
May  free  my  heart  from  all  its  fears. 
And  teach  my  lips  a song  to  sing. 

Before  yon  field  of  trembling  gold 
Is  garnered  into  dusty  sheaves. 

Or  ere  the  autumn’s  scarlet  leaves 
Flutter  as  birds  adown  the  wold, 

I may  have  run  the  glorious  race, 

And  caught  the  torch  while  yet  aflame, 
And  called  upon  the  holy  name 
Of  Him  who  now  doth  hide  His  face. 


\rona. 


ROSA  MYSTICA 


49 


URBS  SACRA  .ETERNA 

Rome  ! what  a scroll  of  History  thine  has 
been ; 

In  the  first  days  thy  sword  republican 
Ruled  the  whole  world  for  many  an  age’s 
span  : 

Then  of  tlie  peoples  wert  thou  royal  Queen, 

Till  in  thy  streets  the  bearded  Goth  was  seen ; 
And  now  upon  thy  walls  the  breezes  fan 
(Ah,  city  crowned  by  God,  discrowned  by 
man  !) 

The  hated  flag  of  red  and  white  and  green. 

When  was  thy  glory ! when  in  search  for  power 
Thine  eagles  flew  to  greet  the  double  sun. 

And  the  wild  nations  shuddered  at  thy  rod  ? 
Nay,  but  thy  glory  tarried  for  this  hour. 

When  pilgrims  kneel  before  the  Holy  One, 
The  prisoned  shepherd  of  the  Church  of  God. 

Monte  Mabio. 


D 


50 


POEMS 


SONNET 

ON  HEARING  THE  DIES  III^  SUNG  IN  THE 
SISTINE  CHAPEL 

Nay,  Lord,  not  thus ! white  lilies  in  the 
spring. 

Sad  olive-groves,  or  silver-breasted  dove, 

Teach  me  more  clearly  of  Thy  life  and  love 
Than  terrors  of  red  flame  and  thundering. 

The  hillside  vines  dear  memories  of  Thee  bring; 
A bird  at  evening  flying  to  its  nest 
Tells  me  of  One  who  had  no  place  of  rest: 

I think  it  is  of  Thee  the  sparrows  sing. 

Come  rather  on  some  autumn  afternoon. 

When  red  and  brown  are  burnished  on  the 
leaves. 

And  the  fields  echo  to  the  gleaner’s  song. 
Come  when  the  splendid  fulness  of  the  moon 
Looks  down  upon  the  rows  of  golden  sheaves. 
And  reap  Thy  harvest ; we  have  waited  long. 


ROSA  MYSTICA 


51 


EASTER  DAY 

The  silver  trumpets  rang  across  the  Dome : 
The  people  knelt  upon  the  ground  with 
awe : 

And  borne  upon  the  necks  of  men  I saw, 

Like  some  great  God,  the  Holy  Lord  of  Rome. 
Priest-like,  he  wore  a robe  more  white  than 
foam. 

And,  king-like,  swathed  himself  in  royal  red. 
Three  crowns  of  gold  rose  high  upon  his  head  : 
In  splendour  and  in  light  the  Pope  passed  home. 
My  heart  stole  back  across  wide  wastes  of  years 
To  One  who  wandered  by  a lonely  sea. 

And  sought  in  vain  for  any  place  of  rest : 

' Foxes  have  holes,  and  every  bird  its  nest. 

I,  only  I,  must  wander  wearily. 

And  bruise  my  feet,  and  drink  wine  salt  with 
tears.* 


62 


POEMS 


E TENEBRIS 

COME  down,  O Christ,  and  help  me ! reach 
thy  hand. 

For  I am  drowning  in  a stormier  sea 
Than  Simon  on  thy  lake  of  Galilee  : 

The  wine  of  life  is  spilt  upon  the  sand. 

My  heart  is  as  some  famine-murdered  land 
Whence  all  good  things  have  perished  utterly. 
And  well  I know  my  soul  in  Hell  must  lie 
I f I this  night  before  God’s  throne  should  stand. 
‘ He  sleeps  perchance,  or  rideth  to  the  chase. 
Like  Baal,  when  his  prophets  howled  that 
name 

From  morn  to  noon  on  CarmeFs  smitten 
height.’ 

Nay,  peace,  I shall  behold,  before  the  night. 

The  feet  of  brass,  the  robe  more  white  than 
flame. 

The  wounded  hands,  the  weary  human  face. 


ROSA  MYSTICA 


53 


VITA  NUOVA 

I STOOD  by  the  unvintageable  sea 

Till  the  wet  waves  drenched  face  and  hair 
with  spray ; 

The  long  red  fires  of  the  dying  day 
Burned  in  the  west ; the  wind  piped  drearily ; 
And  to  the  land  the  clamorous  gulls  did  flee : 

^ Alas  ! ’ I cried,  ‘ my  life  is  full  of  pain, 

And  who  can  garner  fruit  or  golden  grain 
From  these  waste  fields  which  travail  cease- 
lessly 

My  nets  gaped  wide  with  many  a break  and 
flaw, 

Nathless  I threw  them  as  my  final  cast 
Into  the  sea,  and  waited  for  the  end. 

When  lo ! a sudden  glory  ! and  I saw 

From  the  black  waters  of  my  tortured  past 
The  argent  splendour  of  white  limbs  ascend  ! 


54 


POEMS 


MADONNA  MIA 

A LILY-GIRL,  not  made  for  this  world’s 
pain, 

With  brown,  soft  hair  close  braided  by  her 
ears. 

And  longing  eyes  half  veiled  by  slumberous 
tears 

Like  bluest  water  seen  through  mists  of  rain  : 
Pale  cheeks  whereon  no  love  hath  left  its  stain. 
Red  underlip  drawn  in  for  fear  of  love. 

And  white  throat,  whiter  than  the  silvered 
dove. 

Through  whose  wan  marble  creeps  one  purple 
vein. 

Yet,  though  my  lips  shall  praise  her  without 
cease. 

Even  to  kiss  her  feet  I am  not  bold. 

Being  o’ershadowed  by  the  wings  of  awC; 

Like  Dante,  when  he  stood  with  Beatrice 
Beneath  the  flaming  Lion’s  breast,  and  saw 
The  seventh  Crystal,  and  the  Stair  of  Gold. 


KOSA  MYSTICA 


66 


THE  NEW  HELEN 

WHERE  hast  thou  been  since  round  the 
walls  of  Troy 

The  sons  of  God  fought  in  that  great  emprise  r 
Why  dost  thou  walk  our  common  earth 
again  ? 

Hast  thou  forgotten  that  impassioned  boy, 

His  purple  galley  and  his  Tyrian  men 
And  treacherous  Aphrodite’s  mocking  eyes? 
For  surely  it  was  thou,  who,  like  a star 
Hung  in  the  silver  silence  of  the  night. 

Didst  lure  the  Old  World’s  chivalry  and  might 
Into  the  clamorous  crimson  waves  of  war  ! 


Or  didst  thou  rule  the  fire-laden  moon  ? 

In  amorous  Sidon  was  thy  temple  built 
Over  the  light  and  laughter  of  the  sea 
Where,  behind  lattice  scarlet-wrought  and 

gilt. 

Some  brown-limbed  girl  did  weave  thee 
tapestry, 

All  through  the  waste  and  wearied  hours  of 
noon ; 


56 


POEMS 


Till  her  wan  cheek  with  flame  of  passion 
burned. 

And  she  rose  up  the  sea-washed  lips  to  kiss 
Of  some  glad  Cyprian  sailor,  safe  returned 
From  Calpe  and  the  cliffs  of  Herakles  ! 

No ! thou  art  Helen,  and  none  other  one  ! 

It  was  for  thee  that  young  Sarpedon  died, 
And  Memnon’s  manhood  was  untimely 
spent ; 

It  was  for  thee  gold-crested  Hector  tried 
With  Thetis’  child  that  evil  race  to  run. 

In  the  last  year  of  thy  beleaguerment ; 

Ay  ! even  now  the  glory  of  thy  fame 

Burns  in  those  fields  of  trampled  asphodel. 
Where  the  high  lords  whom  Ilion  knew  so 
well 

Clash  ghostly  shields,  and  call  upon  thy  name. 


Where  hast  thou  been  ? in  that  enchanted  land 
Whose  slumbering  vales  forlorn  Calypso  knew. 
Where  never  mower  rose  at  break  of  day 
But  all  unswathed  the  trammelling  grasses 
grew. 

And  the  sad  shepherd  saw  the  tall  corn  stand 
Till  summer’s  red  had  changed  to  withered 
grey? 

Didst  thou  lie  there  by  some  Lethaean  stream 
Deep  brooding  on  thine  ancient  memory. 


THE  NEW  HELEN 


57 


The  crash  of  broken  spears,  the  fiery  gleam 
From  shivered  helm,  the  Grecian  battle- 
cry? 


Nay,  thou  wert  hidden  in  that  hollow  hill 
With  one  who  is  forgotten  utterly. 

That  discrowned  Queen  men  call  the 
Erycine ; 

Hidden  away  that  never  mightst  thou  see 
The  face  of  Her,  before  whose  mouldering 
shrine 

To-day  at  Rome  the  silent  nations  kneel ; 

Who  gat  from  Love  no  joyous  gladdening. 

But  only  Love’s  intolerable  pain, 

Only  a sword  to  pierce  her  heart  in  twain. 
Only  the  bitterness  of  child-bearing. 


The  lotus-leaves  which  heal  the  wounds  of 
Death 

Lie  in  thy  hand  ; O,  be  thou  kind  to  me. 
While  yet  I know  the  summer  of  my 
days; 

For  hardly  can  my  tremulous  lips  draw  breath 
To  fill  the  silver  trumpet  with  thy  praise. 

So  bowed  am  I before  thy  mystery  ; 

So  bowed  and  broken  on  Love’s  terrible  wheel, 
That  I have  lost  all  hope  and  heart  to  sing. 
Yet  care  I not  what  ruin  time  may  bring 
If  xn  thy  temple  thou  wilt  let  me  kneel. 


58 


POEMS 


Alas,  alas,  thou  wilt  not  tarry  here. 

But,  like  that  bird,  the  servant  of  the  sun, 
Who  flies  before  the  north  wind  and  the 
night, 

So  wilt  thou  fly  our  evil  land  and  drear, 

Back  to  the  tower  of  thine  old  delight, 

And  the  red  lips  of  young  Euphorion ; 

Nor  shall  I ever  see  thy  face  again. 

But  in  this  poisonous  garden-close  must  stay. 
Crowning  my  brows  with  the  thorn-crown  of 
pain. 

Till  all  my  loveless  life  shall  pass  away. 


O Helen  ! Helen  ! Helen  ! yet  a while. 

Yet  for  a little  while,  O,  tarry  here. 

Till  the  dawn  cometh  and  the  shadows  flee ! 
For  in  the  gladsome  sunlight  of  thy  smile 
Of  heaven  or  hell  I have  no  thought  or  fear, 
Seeing  I loiow  no  other  god  but  thee : 

No  other  god  save  him,  before  whose  feet 
In  nets  of  gold  the  tired  planets  move. 

The  incarnate  spirit  of  spiritual  love 
Who  in  thy  body  holds  his  joyous  seat. 

Thou  wert  not  born  as  common  women  are  1 
But,  girt  with  silver  splendour  of  the  foam. 
Didst  from  the  depths  of  sapphire  seas 
arise  I 

And  at  thy  coming  some  immortal  star. 


THE  NEW  HELEN 


59 


Bearded  with  flame,  blazed  in  the  Eastern 
skies. 

And  waked  the  shepherds  on  thine  island- 
home. 

Thou  shalt  not  die  : no  asps  of  Egypt  creep 
Close  at  thy  heels  to  taint  the  delicate  air; 

No  sullen-blooming  poppies  stain  thy  hair. 
Those  scarlet  heralds  of  eternal  sleep. 

Lily  of  love,  pure  and  inviolate  ! 

Tower  of  ivory  ! red  rose  of  fire  I 

Thou  hast  come  down  our  darkness  to 
illume : 

For  we,  close-caught  in  the  wide  nets  of  Fate, 
Wearied  with  waiting  for  the  World's  Desire 
Aimlessly  wandered  in  the  House  of  gloom. 
Aimlessly  sought  some  slumberous  anodyne 
For  wasted  lives,  for  lingering  wretchedness. 
Till  we  beheld  thy  re-arisen  shrine. 

And  the  white  glory  of  thy  loveliness* 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITY8 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITYS 


This  English  Thames  is  holier  far  than 
Rome, 

Those  harebells  like  a sudden  flush  of  sea 
Breaking  across  the  woodland,  with  the  foam 
Of  meadow-sweet  and  white  anemone 
To  fleck  their  blue  waves, — God  is  likelier  there 
Than  hidden  in  that  crystal-hearted  star  the  pale 
monks  bear ! 

Those  violet-gleaming  butterflies  that  take 
Yon  creamy  lily  for  their  pavilion 
Are  monsignores,  and  where  the  rushes  shake 
A lazy  pike  lies  basking  in  the  sun. 

His  eyes  half  shut, — he  is  some  mitred  old 
Bishop  in  partibus ! look  at  those  gaudy  scales  all 
green  and  gold. 

The  wind  the  restless  prisoner  of  the  trees 
Does  well  for  Palaestrina,  one  would  say 
The  mighty  master's  hands  were  on  the  keys 
Of  the  Maria  organ,  which  they  play 
When  early  on  some  sapphire  Easter  morn 
In  a high  litter  red  as  blood  or  sin  the  Pope  is 
borne 


64 


POEMS 


From  his  dark  House  out  to  the  Balcony 

Above  the  bronze  gates  and  the  crowded 
square. 

Whose  very  fountains  seem  for  ecstasy 
To  toss  their  silver  lances  in  the  air. 

And  stretching  out  weak  hands  to  East  and 
West 

In  vain  sends  peace  to  peaceless  lands,  to  restless 
nations  rest. 


Is  not  yon  lingering  orange  after-glow 

That  stays  to  vex  the  moon  more  fair  than 
all 

Rome’s  lordliest  pageants  ! strange,  a year  ago 
I knelt  before  some  crimson  Cardinal 
Who  bare  the  Host  across  the  Esquiline, 

And  now — those  common  poppies  in  the  wheat 
seem  twice  as  fine. 


The  blue-green  beanfields  yonder,  tremulous 
With  the  last  shower,  sweeter  perfume  bring 

Through  this  cool  evening  than  the  odorous 
Flame-jewelled  censers  the  young  deacons 
swing. 

When  the  grey  priest  unlocks  the  curtained 
shrine. 

And  makes  God’s  body  from  the  common  fruit 
of  corn  and  vine. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITYS 


6A 


Poor  Fra  Giovanni  bawling  at  the  mass 

Were  out  of  tune  now,  for  a small  brown  bird 

Sings  overhead,  and  through  the  long  cool 
grass 

I see  that  throbbing  throat  which  once  I 
heard 

On  starlit  hills  of  flower-starred  Arcady, 

Once  where  the  white  and  crescent  sand  of 
Salamis  meets  sea. 

Sweet  is  the  swallow  twittering  on  the  eaves 
At  daybreak,  when  the  mower  whets  his 
scythe. 

And  stock-doves  murmur,  and  the  milkmaid 
leaves 

Her  little  lonely  bed,  and  carols  blithe 

To  see  the  heavy-lowing  cattle  wait 

Stretching  their  huge  and  dripping  mouths  across 
the  farmyard  gate. 

And  sweet  the  hops  upon  the  Kentish  leas. 

And  sweet  the  wind  that  lifts  the  new-mown 
hay. 

And  sweet  the  fretful  swarms  of  grumbling 
bees 

That  round  and  round  the  linden  blossoms 
play; 

And  sweet  the  heifer  breathing  in  the  stall. 

And  the  green  bursting  figs  that  hang  upon  the 
red-brick  wall. 

K 


POEMS 


And  sweet  to  hear  the  cuckoo  mock  the  spring 
While  the  last  violet  loiters  by  the  well. 

And  sweet  to  hear  the  shepherd  Daphnis  sing 
The  song  of  Linus  through  a sunny  dell 
Of  warm  Arcadia  where  the  corn  is  gold 
And  the  slight  lithe-limbed  reapers  dance  about 
the  wattled  fold. 

And  sweet  with  young  Lycoris  to  recline 
In  some  Illyrian  valley  far  away. 

Where  canopied  on  herbs  amaracine 

We  too  might  waste  the  summer-trancM  day 
Matching  our  reeds  in  sportive  rivalry. 

While  far  beneath  us  frets  the  troubled  purple 
of  the  sea. 

But  sweeter  far  if  silver-sandalled  foot 

Of  some  long-hidden  God  should  ever  tread 
The  Nuneham  meadows,  if  with  reeded  flute 
Pressed  to  his  lips  some  Faun  might  raise  his 
head 

By  the  green  water-flags,  ah  ! sweet  indeed 
To  see  the  heavenly  herdsman  call  his  white- 
fleeced  flock  to  feed. 

Then  sing  to  me  thou  tuneful  chorister, 

Though  what  thou  sing’st  be  thine  own 
requiem ! 

Tell  me  thy  tale  thou  hapless  chronicler 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITYS 


67 


Of  thine  own  tragedies  ! do  not  contemn 
These  unfamiliar  haunts,  this  English  field, 

For  many  a lovely  coronal  our  northern  isle  can 
yield 

Which  Grecian  meadows  know  not,  many  a 
rose 

Which  all  day  long  in  vales  iEolian 
A lad  might  seek  in  vain  for  over-grows 

Our  hedges  like  a wanton  courtesan 
Unthrifty  of  its  beauty ; lilies  too 
Ilissos  never  mirrored  star  our  streams,  and 
cockles  blue 

Dot  the  green  wheat  which,  though  they  are 
the  signs 

For  swallows  going  south,  would  never  spread 
Their  azure  tents  between  the  Attic  vines ; 

Even  that  little  weed  of  ragged  red. 

Which  bids  the  robin  pipe,  in  Arcady 
Would  be  a trespasser,  and  many  an  unsung 
elegy 

Sleeps  in  the  reeds  that  fringe  our  winding 
Thames 

Which  to  awake  were  sweeter  ravishment 
Than  ever  Syrinx  wept  for;  diadems 

Of  brown  bee-studded  orchids  which  were 
meant 


G8 


POEMS 


For  Cytheraea’s  brows  are  hidden  here 
Unknown  to  Cytheraea^  and  by  yonder  pasturing 
steer 

There  is  a tiny  yellow  daffodil, 

The  butterfly  can  see  it  from  afar. 

Although  one  summer  evening’s  dew  could 
fill 

Its  little  cup  twice  over  ere  the  star 
Had  called  the  lazy  shepherd  to  his  fold 
And  be  no  prodigal ; each  leaf  is  flecked  with 
spotted  gold 

As  if  Jove’s  gorgeous  leman  Danae 

Hot  from  his  gilded  arms  had  stooped  to 
kiss 

The  trembling  petals,  or  young  Mercury 
Low-flying  to  the  dusky  ford  of  Dis 
Had  with  one  feather  of  his  pinions 
Just  brushed  them  ! the  slight  stem  which  bears 
the  burden  of  its  suns 

Is  hardly  thicker  than  the  gossamer, 

Or  poor  Arachne’s  silver  tapestry, — 

Men  say  it  bloomed  upon  the  sepulchre 
Of  One  I sometime  worshipped,  but  to  me 
It  seems  to  bring  diviner  memories 
Of  faun -loved  Heliconian  glades  and  bluQ 
nymph-haunted  seas, 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITYS 


69 


Of  an  untrodden  vale  at  Tempe  where 
On  the  clear  river’s  marge  Narcissus  lies. 

The  tangle  of  the  forest  in  his  hair. 

The  silence  of  the  woodland  in  his  eyes, 
Wooing  that  drifting  imagery  which  is 
No  sooner  kissed  than  broken ; memories  of 
Salmacis 

Who  is  not  boy  nor  girl  and  yet  is  both. 

Fed  by  two  fires  and  unsatisfied 
Through  their  excess,  each  passion  being  loth 
For  love’s  own  sake  to  leave  the  other’s  side 
Yet  killing  love  by  staying  ; memories 
Of  Oreads  peeping  through  the  leaves  of  silent 
moonlit  trees. 

Of  lonely  Ariadne  on  the  wharf 

At  Naxos,  when  she  saw  the  treacherous  crew 
Far  out  at  sea,  and  waved  her  crimson  scarf 
And  called  false  Theseus  back  again  nor  knew 
That  Dionysos  on  an  amber  pard 
Was  close  behind  her ; memories  of  what 
MaBonia’s  bard 

With  sightless  eyes  beheld,  the  wall  of  Troy, 
Queen  Helen  lying  in  the  ivory  room. 

And  at  her  side  an  amorous  red-lipped  boy 

Trimming  with  dainty  hand  his  helmet’s 
plume, 


70 


POEMS 


And  far  away  the  moil,  the  shout,  the  groan, 

As  Hector  shielded  off  the  spear  and  Ajax 
hurled  the  stone ; 


Of  winged  Perseus  with  his  flawless  sword 
Cleaving  the  snaky  tresses  of  the  witch. 

And  all  those  tales  imperishahly  stored 

In  little  Grecian  urns,  freightage  more  rich 
Than  any  gaudy  galleon  of  Spain 
Bare  from  the  Indies  ever ! these  at  least  bring 
back  again. 


For  well  I know  they  are  not  dead  at  all. 

The  ancient  Gods  of  Grecian  poesy  ; 

They  are  asleep,  and  when  they  hear  thee  call 
Will  wake  and  think  'tis  very  Thessaly, 

This  Thames  the  Daulian  waters,  this  cool 
glade 

The  yellow-irised  mead  where  once  young  Itys 
laughed  and  played. 


If  it  was  thou  dear  jasmine-cradled  bird 
Who  from  the  leafy  stillness  of  thy  throne 
Sang  to  the  wondrous  boy,  until  he  heard 
The  horn  of  Atalanta  faintly  blown 
Across  the  Cumnor  hills,  and  wandering 
Through  Bagley  wood  at  evening  found  the 
Attic  poets'  spring, — 


THE  BURDEN  ITYS 


71 


Ah  ! tiny  sober-suited  advocate 

That  pleadest  for  the  moon  against  the  day  ! 

If  thou  didst  make  the  shepherd  seek  his  mate 
On  that  sweet  questing,  when  Proserpina 
Forgot  it  was  not  Sicily  and  leant 
Across  the  mossy  Sandford  stile  in  ravished 
wonderment, — 

Light-winged  and  bright-eyed  miracle  of  the 
wood ! 

If  ever  thou  didst  soothe  with  melody 
One  of  that  little  clan,  that  brotherhood 
Which  loved  the  morning-star  of  Tuscany 
More  than  the  perfect  sun  of  Raphael 
And  is  immortal,  sing  to  me  1 for  I too  love 
thee  well. 

Sing  on ! sing  on  1 let  the  dull  world  grow 
young. 

Let  elemental  things  take  form  again. 

And  the  old  shapes  of  Beauty  walk  among 
The  simple  garths  and  open  crofts,  as  when 
The  son  of  Leto  bare  the  willow  rod, 

And  the  soft  sheep  and  shaggy  goats  followed 
the  boyish  God. 

Sing  on  ! sing  on  ! and  Bacchus  will  be  here 
Astride  upon  his  gorgeous  Indian  throne. 

And  over  whimpering  tigers  shake  the  spear 
With  yellow  ivy  crowned  and  gummy  cone. 


72 


POEMS 


While  at  his  side  the  wanton  Bassarid 
Will  throw  the  lion  by  the  mane  and  catch  the 
mountain  kid ! 


Sing  on  ! and  I will  wear  the  leopard  skin, 

And  steal  the  mooned  wings  of  Ashtaroth, 
Upon  whose  icy  chariot  we  could  win 
Cithaeron  in  an  hour  ere  the  froth 
Has  over-brimmed  the  wine-vat  or  the  Faun 
Ceased  from  the  treading  I ay,  before  the  flicker- 
ing lamp  of  dawn 

Has  scared  the  hooting  owlet  to  its  nest. 

And  warned  the  bat  to  close  its  filmy  vans. 
Some  Maenad  girl  with  vine-leaves  on  her  breast 
Will  filch  their  beech-nuts  from  the  sleeping 
Pans 

So  softly  that  the  little  nested  thrush 
Will  never  wake,  and  then  with  shrilly  laugh  and 
leap  will  rush 

Down  the  green  valley  where  the  fallen  dew 
Lies  thick  beneath  the  elm  and  count  her 
store. 

Till  the  brown  Satyrs  in  a jolly  crew 

Trample  the  loosestrife  down  along  the  shore, 
And  where  their  horned  master  sits  in  state 
Bring  strawberries  and  bloomy  plums  upon  • 
wicker  crate ! 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITYS 


75 


Sing  on  ! and  soon  with  passion-wearied  face 
Through  the  cool  leaves  Apollo’s  lad  will 
come. 

The  Tyrian  prince  his  bristled  boar  will  chase 
Adown  the  chestnut-copses  all  a-bloom, 

And  ivory-limbed,  grey-eyed,  with  look  of  pride. 
After  yon  velvet-coated  deer  the  virgin  maid 
will  ride. 

Sing  on  ! and  I the  dying  boy  will  see 

Stain  with  his  purple  blood  the  waxen  bell 
That  overweighs  the  jacinth,  and  to  me 
The  wretched  Cyprian  her  woe  will  tell, 

And  I will  kiss  her  mouth  and  streaming  eyes. 
And  lead  her  to  the  myrtle-hidden  grove  where 
Adon  lies ! 

Cry  out  aloud  on  Itys  I memory 

That  foster-brother  of  remorse  and  pain 
Drops  poison  in  mine  ear, — O to  be  free. 

To  burn  one’s  old  ships  ! and  to  launch  again 
Into  the  white-plumed  battle  of  the  waves 
And  fight  old  Proteus  for  the  spoil  of  coral- 
flowered  caves ! 


O for  Medea  with  her  poppied  spell ! 

O for  the  secret  of  the  Colchian  shrine  I 
O for  one  leaf  of  that  pale  asphodel 

Which  binds  the  tired  brows  of  Proserpine, 


74 


POEMS 


And  sheds  such  wondrous  dews  at  eve  that  she 
Dreams  of  the  fields  of  Enna,  by  the  far  Siciliaia 
sea^ 

Where  oft  the  golden-girdled  bee  she  chased 
From  lily  to  lily  on  the  level  mead. 

Ere  yet  her  sombre  Lord  had  bid  her  taste 
The  deadly  fruit  of  that  pomegranate  seed. 
Ere  the  black  steeds  had  harried  her  away 
Down  to  the  faint  and  flowerless  land,  the  sick 
and  sunless  day. 


O for  one  midnight  and  as  paramour 
The  Venus  of  the  little  Melian  farm  ! 

0 that  some  antique  statue  for  one  hour 
Might  wake  to  passion,  and  that  I could 

charm 

The  Dawn  at  Florence  from  its  dumb  despair. 
Mix  with  those  mighty  limbs  and  make  that 
giant  breast  my  lair  ! 

Sing  on  ! sing  on  ! I would  be  drunk  with  life, 
Drunk  with  the  trampled  vintage  of  my 
youth, 

1 would  forget  the  wearying  wasted  strife. 

The  riven  veil,  the  Gorgon  eyes  of  Truth, 

The  prayerless  vigil  and  the  cry  for  prayer. 

The  barren  gifts,  the  lifted  arms,  the  dull  in- 
sensate air ! 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITYS 


75 


Sing  on  ! sing  on  ! O feathered  Niobe, 

Thou  canst  make  sorrow  beautiful,  and  steal 
From  joy  its  sweetest  music,  not  as  we 

Who  by  dead  voiceless  silence  strive  to  heal 
Our  too  untented  wounds,  and  do  but  keep 
Pain  barricadoed  in  our  hearts,  and  murder 
pillowed  sleep. 

Sing  louder  yet,  why  must  I still  behold 

The  wan  white  face  of  that  deserted  Christ, 
Whose  bleeding  hands  my  hands  did  once 
enfold. 

Whose  smitten  lips  my  lips  so  oft  have 
kissed, 

And  now  in  mute  and  marble  misery 
Sits  in  his  lone  dishonoured  House  and  weeps, 
perchance  for  me  ? 

O Memory  cast  down  thy  wreathed  shell ! 

Break  thy  hoarse  lute  O sad  Melpomene  ! 

O Sorrow,  Sorrow  keep  thy  cloistered  cell 
Nor  dim  with  tears  this  limpid  Castaly  I 
Cease,  Philomel,  thou  dost  the  forest  wrong 
To  vex  its  sylvan  quiet  with  such  wild  impassioned 
song ! 

Cease,  cease,  or  if’tis  anguish  to  be  dumb 

Take  from  the  pastoral  thrush  her  simpler  air, 
Whose  jocund  carelessness  doth  more  become 
This  English  woodland  than  thy  keen  despair^ 


76 


POEMS 


Ah  ! cease  and  let  the  north  wind  bear  thy  lay 
Back  to  the  rocky  hills  of  Thrace,  the  stormy 
Daulian  bay. 


A moment  more,  the  startled  leaves  had  stirred, 
Endymion  would  have  passed  across  the  mead 
Moonstruck  with  love,  and  this  still  Thames 
had  heard 

Pan  plash  and  paddle  groping  for  some  reed 
To  lure  from  her  blue  cave  that  Naiad  maid 
Who  for  such  piping  listens  half  in  joy  and  half 
afraid. 

A moment  more,  the  waking  dove  had  cooed. 
The  silver  daughter  of  the  silver  sea 
With  the  fond  gyves  of  clinging  hands  had 
wooed 

Her  wanton  from  the  chase,  and  Dryope 
Had  thrust  aside  the  branches  of  her  oak 
To  see  the  lusty  gold-haired  lad  rein  in  his 
snorting  yoke. 

A moment  more,  the  trees  had  stooped  to  kiss 
Pale  Daphne  just  awakening  from  the  swoon 
Of  tremulous  laurels,  lonely  Salmacis 

Had  bared  his  barren  beauty  to  the  moon, 
And  through  the  vale  with  sad  voluptuous  smile 
Antinous  had  wandered,  the  red  lotus  of  the 
Nile 


THE  BURDEN  OP  ITYS 


77 


Down  leaning  from  his  black  and  clustering 
hair. 

To  shade  those  slumberous  eyelids’  caverned 
bliss. 

Or  else  on  yonder  grassy  slope  with  bare 
High-tuniced  limbs  unravished  Artemis 
Had  bade  her  hounds  give  tongue,  and  roused 
the  deer 

From  his  green  ambuscade  with  shrill  halloo 
and  pricking  spear. 

Lie  still,  lie  still,  O passionate  heart,  lie  still ! 

O Melancholy,  fold  thy  raven  wing  ! 

O sobbing  Dryad,  from  thy  hollow  hill 

Come  not  with  such  despondent  answering ! 
No  more  thou  winged  Marsyas  complain, 

Apollo  loveth  not  to  hear  such  troubled  songs 
of  pain ! 

It  was  a dream,  the  glade  is  tenantless. 

No  soft  Ionian  laughter  moves  the  air. 

The  Thames  creeps  on  in  sluggish  leadenness, 
And  from  the  copse  left  desolate  and  bare 
Fled  is  young  Bacchus  with  his  revelry, 

Yet  still  from  Nuneham  wood  there  comes  that 
thrilling  melody 

So  sad,  that  one  might  think  a human  heart 
Brake  in  each  separate  note,  a quality 
Which  music  sometimes  has,  being  the  Art 


78 


rOEMS 


Which  is  most  nigh  to  tears  and  memory ; 

Poor  mourning  Philomel,  what  dost  thou  fear? 

Thy  sister  doth  not  haunt  these  fields,  Pandion 
is  not  here, 

Here  is  no  cruel  Lord  with  murderous  blade, 

No  woven  web  of  bloody  heraldries, 

But  mossy  dells  for  roving  comrades  made. 

Warm  valleys  where  the  tired  student  lies 

With  half-shut  book,  and  many  a winding 
walk 

Where  rustic  lovers  stray  at  eve  in  happy  simple 
talk. 

The  harmless  rabbit  gambols  with  its  young 
Across  the  trampled  towing-path,  where  late 

A troop  of  laughing  boys  in  jostling  throng 
Cheered  with  their  noisy  cries  the  racing 
eight; 

The  gossamer,  with  ravelled  silver  threads, 

Works  at  its  little  loom,  and  from  the  dusky 
red-eaved  sheds 

Of  the  lone  Farm  a flickering  light  shines  out 
Where  the  swinked  shepherd  drives  his  bleat- 
ing flock 

Back  to  their  wattled  sheep-cotes,  a faint  shout 
Comes  from  s^ime  Oxford  boat  at  Sandford 

lock, 


THE  BURDEN  OF  ITYS 


79 


And  starts  the  moor-hen  from  the  sedgy  rill. 

And  the  dim  lengthening  shadows  flit  like 
swallows  up  the  hill. 

The  heron  passes  homeward  to  the  mere. 

The  blue  mist  creeps  among  the  shivering 
trees. 

Gold  world  by  world  the  silent  stars  appear. 

And  like  a blossom  blown  before  the  breeze 

A white  moon  drifts  across  the  shimmering 
sky. 

Mute  arbitress  of  all  thy  sad,  thy  rapturous 
threnody. 

She  does  not  heed  thee,  wherefore  should  she 
heed. 

She  knows  Endymion  is  not  far  away ; 

*T  is  I,  ’tis  I,  whose  soul  is  as  the  reed 
Which  has  no  message  of  its  own  to  play. 

So  pipes  another's  bidding,  it  is  I, 

Drifting  with  every  wind  on  the  wide  sea  of 
misery. 

Ah ! the  brown  bird  has  ceased : one  exquisite 
trill 

About  the  sombre  woodland  seems  to  cling 

Dying  in  music,  else  the  air  is  still. 

So  still  that  one  might  hear  the  bat's  small 
wing 


80 


POEMS 


Wander  and  wheel  above  the  pines,  or  tell 
Each  tiny  dew-drop  dripping  from  the  bluebelPs 
brimming  cell. 

And  far  away  across  the  lengthening  wold. 
Across  the  willowy  flats  and  thickets  brown, 
Magdalen’s  tall  tower  tipped  with  tremulous 
gold 

Marks  the  long  High  Street  of  the  little  town, 
And  warns  me  to  return ; I must  not  wait. 

Hark  I ’tis  the  curfew  booming  from  the  bell  at 
Christ  Church  gate. 


WIND  FLOWERS 


IMPRESSION  DU  MATIN 

The  Thames  nocturne  of  blue  and  gold 
Changed  to  a Harmony  in  grey  : 

A barge  with  ochre-coloured  hay 
Dropt  from  the  wharf : and  chill  and  cold 

The  yellow  fog  came  creeping  down 
The  bridges,  till  the  houses'  walls 
Seemed  changed  to  shadows  and  St.  Paul’s 
Loomed  like  a bubble  o’er  the  town. 

Then  suddenly  arose  the  clang 

Of  waking  life  ; the  streets  were  stirred 
With  country  waggons  : and  a bird 
Flew  to  the  glistening  roofs  and  sang. 

But  one  pale  woman  all  alone, 

The  daylight  kissing  her  wan  hair, 
Loitered  beneath  the  gas  lamps’  flare. 
With  lips  of  dame  and  heart  of  stone. 


84 


POEMS 


MAGDALExN  WALKS 

The  little  white  clouds  are  racing  over  the 

And  the  fields  are  strewn  with  the  gold  of  the 
flower  of  March, 

The  daffodil  breaks  under  foot,  and  the 
tasselled  larch 

Sways  and  swings  as  the  thrush  goes  hurrying  by. 

A delicate  odour  is  borne  on  the  wings  of  the 
morning  breeze. 

The  odour  of  deep  wet  grass,  and  of  brown 
new-furrowed  earth. 

The  birds  are  singing  for  joy  of  the  Spring’s 
glad  birth. 

Hopping  from  branch  to  branch  on  the  rocking 
trees. 

And  all  the  woods  are  alive  with  the  murmur 
and  sound  of  Spring, 

And  the  rose-bud  breaks  into  pink  on  the 
climbing  briar. 

And  the  crocus-bed  is  a quivering  moon  of  fire 
Girdled  round  with  the  belt  of  an  amethyst  ring. 


MAGDALEN  WALKS 


85 


And  the  plane  to  the  pine-tree  is  whispering 
some  tale  of  love 

Till  it  rustles  with  laughter  and  tosses  its 
mantle  of  green, 

And  the  gloom  of  the  wych-elm’s  hollow  is  lit 
with  the  iris  sheen 

Of  the  burnished  rainbow  throat  and  the  silver 
breast  of  a dove. 

See  ! the  lark  starts  up  from  his  bed  in  the 
meadow  there, 

Breaking  the  gossamer  threads  and  the  nets 
of  dew. 

And  flashing  adown  the  river,  a flame  of  blue  . 

The  kingfisher  flies  like  an  arrow,  and  wounds 
the  air. 


86 


POEMS 


ATHANASIA 

TO  that  gaunt  House  of  Art  which  lacks  for 
naught 

Of  all  the  great  things  men  have  saved  from 
Time, 

The  withered  body  of  a girl  was  brought 

Dead  ere  the  world’s  glad  youth  had  touched 
its  prime, 

And  seen  by  lonely  Arabs  lying  hid 
In  the  dim  womb  of  some  black  pyramid. 

But  when  they  had  unloosed  the  linen  band 
Which  swathed  the  Egyptian’s  body, — lo ! 
was  found 

Closed  in  the  wasted  hollow  of  her  hand 

A little  seed,  which  sown  in  English  ground 
Did  wondrous  snow  of  starry  blossoms  bear 
And  spread  rich  odours  through  our  spring-tide 

air. 

With  such  strange  arts  this  flower  did  allure 
That  all  forgotten  was  the  asphodel. 

And  the  brown  bee,  the  lily’s  paramour. 

Forsook  the  cup  where  he  was  wont  to  dwell. 
For  not  a thing  of  earth  it  seemed  to  be, 

But  stolen  from  some  heavenly  Arcady. 


ATHANASIA 


87 


In  vain  the  sad  narcissus,  wan  and  white 
At  its  own  beauty,  hung  across  the  stream. 
The  purple  dragon-fly  had  no  delight 

With  its  gold  dust  to  make  his  wings  a-gleam. 
Ah  ! no  delight  the  jasmine-bloom  to  kiss. 

Or  brush  the  rain-pearls  from  the  eucharis. 

For  love  of  it  the  passionate  nightingale 
Forgot  the  hills  of  Tlirace,  the  cruel  king. 

And  the  pale  dove  no  longer  cared  to  sail 

Through  the  wet  woods  at  time  of  blossoming, 
But  round  this  flower  of  Egypt  sought  to  float, 
VVhth  silvered  wing  and  amethystine  throat. 


While  the  hot  sun  blazed  in  his  tower  of  blue 
A cooling  wind  crept  from  the  land  of  snows, 
And  the  warm  south  with  tender  tears  of  dew 
Drenched  its  white  leaves  when  Hesperos 
up-rose 

Amid  those  sea-green  meadows  of  the  sky 
On  which  the  scarlet  bars  of  sunset  lie. 

But  when  o’er  wastes  of  lily-haunted  field 

The  tired  birds  had  stayed  their  amorous 
tune. 

And  broad  and  glittering  like  an  argent  shield 
High  in  the  sapphire  heavens  hung  the  moon. 
Did  no  strange  dream  or  evil  memory  make 
Each  tremulous  petal  of  its  blossoms  shake  ? 


88 


POEMS 


Ah  no  I to  this  bright  flower  a thousand  years 
Seemed  but  the  lingering  of  a summer’s  day. 

It  never  knew  the  tide  of  cankering  fears 

Which  turn  a boy’s  gold  hair  to  withered 
grey, 

The  dread  desire  of  death  it  never  knew. 

Or  how  all  folk  that  they  were  born  must  rue. 

For  we  to  death  with  pipe  and  dancing  go. 

Nor  would  we  pass  the  ivory  gate  again. 

As  some  sad  river  wearied  of  its  flow 

Through  the  dull  plains,  the  haunts  of  com- 
mon men. 

Leaps  lover-like  into  the  terrible  sea ! 

And  counts  it  gain  to  die  so  gloriously. 

We  mar  our  lordly  strength  in  barren  strife 
With  the  world’s  legions  led  by  clamorous 
care. 

It  never  feels  decay  but  gathers  life 

From  the  pure  sunlight  and  the  supreme  air, 

We  live  beneath  Time’s  wasting  sovereignty. 

It  is  the  child  of  all  eternity. 


WIND  FLOWERS 


SERENADE 

(for  music) 

The  western  wind  is  blowing  fair 
Across  the  dark  iEgean  sea. 

And  at  the  secret  marble  stair 
My  Tyriin  galley  waits  for  thee. 

Come  down ! the  purple  sail  is  spread. 
The  watchman  sleeps  within  the  town, 
O leave  thy  lily-flowered  bed, 

O Lady  mine  come  down,  come  down ' 

She  will  not  come,  I know  her  well, 

Of  lover’s  vows  she  hath  no  care. 

And  little  good  a man  can  tell 
Of  one  so  cruel  and  so  fair. 

True  love  is  but  a woman’s  toy. 

They  never  know  the  lover’s  pain. 

And  I who  loved  as  loves  a boy 

Must  love  in  vain,  must  love  in  vain. 

O noble  pilot,  tell  me  true. 

Is  that  the  sheen  of  golden  hair? 

Or  is  it  but  the  tangled  dew 

That  binds  the  passion  flowers  there  } 


90 


POEMS 


Good  sailor  come  and  tell  me  now 
Is  that  my  Lady’s  lily  hand  ? 

Or  is  it  but  the  gleaming  prow. 

Or  is  it  but  the  silver  sand  ? 

No ! no  ! 'tis  not  the  tangled  dew, 

*Tis  not  the  silver-fretted  sand. 

It  is  my  own  dear  Lady  true 

With  golden  hair  and  lily  hand  ! 

O noble  pilot,  steer  for  Troy, 

Good  sailor,  ply  the  labouring  oar, 

This  is  the  Queen  of  life  and  joy 

Whom  we  must  bear  from  Grecian  shore  i 

The  waning  sky  grows  faint  and  blue, 

It  wants  an  hour  still  of  day. 

Aboard  ! aboard  ! my  gallant  crew, 

O Lady  mine,  away  ! away  ! 

O noble  pilot,  steer  for  Troy, 

Good  sailor,  ply  the  labouring  oar, 

O loved  as  only  loves  a boy  ! 

O loved  for  ever  evermore  1 


WIND  FLOWERS 


ENDYMION 

(for  music) 

The  apple  trees  are  hung  with  gold 
And  birds  are  loud  in  Arcady, 
The  sheep  lie  bleating  in  the  fold. 

The  wild  goat  runs  across  the  wold. 

But  yesterday  his  love  he  told, 

I know  he  will  come  back  to  me. 

O rising  moon  ! O Lady  moon  ! 

Be  you  my  lover’s  sentinel. 

You  cannot  choose  but  know  him  well, 
For  he  is  shod  with  purple  shoon. 

You  cannot  choose  but  know  my  love. 
For  he  a shepherd’s  crook  doth  bear. 
And  he  is  soft  as  any  dove. 

And  brown  and  curly  is  his  hair. 

The  turtle  now  has  ceased  to  call 
Upon  her  crimson-footed  groom. 

The  grey  wolf  prowls  about  the  stall. 
The  lily  singing  seneschal 
Sleeps  in  the  lily-bell,  and  all 
The  violet  hills  are  lost  in  gloom. 


92 


POEMS 


O risen  moon  ! O holy  moon  ! 

Stand  on  the  top  of  Helice, 

And  if  my  own  true  love  you  see. 

Ah  ! if  you  see  the  purple  shoon, 

The  hazel  crook,  the  lad  s brown  hair. 

The  goat-skin  wrapped  about  his  arm. 
Tell  him  that  I am  waiting  where 
The  rushlight  glimmers  in  the  Farm. 

The  falling  dew  is  cold  and  chill. 

And  no  bird  sings  in  Arcady, 

The  little  fauns  have  left  the  hill. 

Even  the  tired  daffodil 
Flas  closed  its  gilded  doors,  and  still 
My  lover  comes  not  back  to  me. 

False  moon  ! False  moon  I O waning  moon 
Where  is  my  own  true  lover  gone. 

Where  are  the  lips  vermilion, 

The  shepherd’s  crook,  the  purple  shoon  } 
Why  spread  that  silver  pavilion. 

Why  wear  that  veil  of  drifting  mist  ? 

Ah  ! thou  hast  young  Endymion, 

Thou  hast  the  lips  that  should  be  kissed 


WIND  FLOWERS 


93 


LA  BELLA  DONNA  DELLA  MIA 
MENTE 

My  limbs  are  wasted  with  a flame. 
My  feet  are  sore  with  travelling, 
For,  calling  on  my  Lady’s  name, 

My  lips  have  now  forgot  to  sing. 

O Linnet  in  the  wild-rose  brake 
Strain  for  my  Love  thy  melody, 

O Lark  sing  louder  for  love’s  sake. 

My  gentle  Lady  passeth  by. 

She  is  too  fair  for  any  man 

To  see  or  hold  his  heart’s  delight. 
Fairer  than  Queen  or  courtesan 
Or  moonlit  water  in  the  night. 

Her  hair  is  bound  with  myrtle  leaves, 
(Green  leaves  upon  her  golden  hair  !) 
Green  grasses  through  the  yellow  sheaves 
Of  autumn  corn  are  not  more  fair. 

Her  little  lips,  more  made  to  kiss 
Than  to  cry  bitterly  for  pain. 

Are  tremulous  as  brook-water  is, 

Or  roses  after  evening  rain. 


POEMS 


Her  neck  is  like  white  raelilote 
Flushing  for  pleasure  of  the  sun. 

The  throbbing  of  the  linnet’s  throat 
Is  not  so  sweet  to  look  upon. 

As  a pomegranate,  cut  in  twain. 

White-seeded,  is  her  crimson  mouth. 
Her  cheeks  are  as  the  fading  stain 

Where  the  peach  reddens  to  the  south. 

O twining  hands  I O delicate 

White  body  made  for  love  and  pain  1 
O H ouse  of  love  ! O desolate 
Pale  flower  beaten  by  the  rain  1 


WIND  FLOWERS 


96 


CHANSON 

A RING  of  gold  and  a milk-white  dove 
Are  goodly  gifts  for  thee. 

And  a hempen  rope  for  your  own  love 
To  hang  upon  a tree. 

For  you  a House  of  Ivory, 

(Roses  are  white  in  the  rose-bower)  ! 

A narrow  bed  for  me  to  lie, 

(White,  O white,  is  the  hemlock  flower) ! 

Myrtle  and  jessamine  for  you, 

(O  the  red  rose  is  fair  to  see) ! 

For  me  the  cypress  and  the  rue, 

(Finest  of  all  is  rosemary)  ! 

For  you  three  lovers  of  your  hand, 

(Green  grass  where  a man  lies  dead)  I 
For  me  three  paces  on  the  sand, 

(Plant  lilies  at  my  head) ! 


CHAKMIDES 


CHARMIDES 


He  was  a Grecian  lad,  who  coming  home 
With  pulpy  figs  and  wine  from  Sicily 
Stood  at  his  galley’s  prow,  and  let  the  foam 
Blow  through  his  crisp  brown  curls  uncon- 
sciously. 

And  holding  wave  and  wind  in  boy’s  despite 
Peered  from  his  dripping  seat  across  the  wet 
and  stormy  night. 

Till  with  the  dawn  he  saw  a burnished  spear 
Like  a thin  thread  of  gold  against  the  sky. 
And  hoisted  sail,  and  strained  the  creaking  gearj 
And  bade  the  pilot  head  her  lustily 
Against  the  nor’ west  gale,  and  all  day  long 
Held  on  his  way,  and  marked  the  rowers’  time 
with  measured  song. 

And  when  the  faint  Corinthian  hills  were  red 
Dropped  anchor  in  a little  sandy  bay. 

And  with  fresh  boughs  of  olive  crowned  his 
head. 


100 


POEMS 


And  brushed  from  cheek  and  throat  the 
hoary  spray, 

And  washed  his  limbs  with  oil,  and  from  the 
hold 

Brought  out  his  linen  tunic  and  his  sandals 
brazen-soled, 

And  a r ch  robe  stained  with  the  fishes'  juice 
Which  of  some  swarthy  trader  he  had  bought 
Upon  the  sunny  quay  at  Syracuse, 

And  was  with  Tyrian  broideries  inwrought. 
And  by  the  questioning  merchants  made  his  way 
Up  through  the  .^oft  and  silver  woods,  and  when 
the  labouring  day 


Had  spun  its  tangled  web  of  crimson  cloud, 
Clomb  the  high  hill,  and  with  swift  silent  feet 
Crept  to  the  fane  unnoticed  by  the  crowd 
Of  busy  priests,  and  from  some  dark  retreat 
Watched  the  young  swains  his  frolic  playmates 
bring 

The  firstling  of  their  little  flock,  and  the  shy 
shepherd  fling 

The  crackling  salt  upon  the  flame,  or  hang 
His  studded  crook  against  the  temple  wall 
To  Her  who  keeps  away  the  ravenous  fang 

Of  the  base  wolf  from  homestead  and  from 
stall ; 


CHARMIDES 


101 


And  then  the  clear-voiced  maidens  *gan  to  sing, 
And  to  the  altar  each  man  brought  some  goodly 
offering, 

A beechen  cup  brimming  with  milky  foam, 

A fair  cloth  wrought  with  cunning  imagery 
Of  hounds  in  chase,  a w^axen  honey-comb 

Dripping  with  oozy  gold  which  scarce  the 
bee 

Had  ceased  from  building,  a black  skin  of  oil 
Meet  for  the  wrestlers,  a great  boar  the  fierce 
and  white-tusked  spoil 


Stolen  from  Artemis  that  jealous  maid 
To  please  Athena,  and  the  dappled  hide 
Of  a tall  stag  who  in  some  mountain  glade 

Had  met  the  shaft ; and  then  the  herald 
cried, 

And  from  the  pillared  precinct  one  by  one 
Went  the  glad  Greeks  well  pleased  that  they 
their  simple  vows  had  done. 

And  the  old  priest  put  out  the  waning  fires 
Save  that  one  lamp  whose  restless  ruby  glowed 
For  ever  in  the  cell,  and  the  shrill  lyres 

Came  fainter  on  the  wind,  as  down  the  road 
In  joyous  dance  these  country  folk  did  pass. 

And  with  stout  hands  the  warder  closed  the 
gates  of  polished  brass. 


102 


POEMS 


Long  time  he  lay  and  hardly  dared  to  breathe, 
And  heard  the  cadenced  drip  of  spilt-out  wine, 
And  the  rose-petals  falling  from  the  wreath 
As  the  night  breezes  wandered  through  the 
shrine, 

And  seemed  to  be  in  some  entranced  swoon 
Till  through  the  open  roof  above  the  full  and 
brimming  moon 

Flooded  with  sheeny  waves  the  marble  floor, 
When  from  his  nook  up  leapt  the  venturous 
lad. 

And  flinging  wide  the  cedar-carven  door 
Beheld  an  awful  image  saffron-clad 
And  armed  for  battle  ! the  gaunt  Griffin  glared 
From  the  huge  helm,  and  the  long  lance  of 
wreck  and  ruin  flared 

Like  a red  rod  of  flame,  stony  and  steeled 
The  Gorgon’s  head  its  leaden  eyeballs  rolled. 
And  writhed  its  snaky  horrors  through  the 
shield. 

And  gaped  aghast  with  bloodless  lips  and  cold 
In  passion  impotent,  while  with  blind  gaze 
The  blinking  owl  between  the  feet  hooted  in 
shrill  amaze. 

The  lonely  fisher  as  he  trimmed  his  lamp 
Far  out  at  sea  off  Sunium,  or  cast 
The  net  for  tunnies,  heard  a brazen  tramp 


CHARMIDES 


103 


Of  horses  smite  the  waves,  and  a wild  blast 
Divide  the  folded  curtains  of  the  night. 

And  knelt  upon  the  little  poop,  and  prayed  in 
holy  fright. 

And  guilty  lovers  in  their  venery 

Forgat  a little  while  their  stolen  sweets. 
Deeming  they  heard  dread  Dian’s  bitter  cry  ; 

And  the  grim  watchmen  on  their  lofty  seats 
Ran  to  their  shields  in  haste  precipitate. 

Or  strained  black-bearded  throats  across  the 
dusky  parapet. 

For  round  the  temple  rolled  the  clang  of  arms, 
And  the  twelve  Gods  leapt  up  in  marble 
fear, 

And  the  air  quaked  with  dissonant  alarums 
Till  huge  Poseidon  shook  his  mighty  spear. 
And  on  the  frieze  the  prancing  horses  neighed, 
And  the  low  tread  of  hurrying  feet  rang  from 
the  cavalcade. 

Ready  for  death  with  parted  lips  he  stood. 

And  well  content  at  such  a price  to  see 
That  calm  wide  brow,  that  terrible  maidenhood. 
The  marvel  of  that  pitiless  chastity. 

Ah  ! well  content  indeed,  for  never  wight 
Since  Troy’s  young  shepherd  prince  had  seen  so 
wonderful  a sight. 


104 


POEMS 


Ready  for  death  he  stood,  but  lo  ! the  air 
Grew  silent,  and  the  horses  ceased  to  neigh, 
And  off  his  brow  he  tossed  the  clustering  hair, 
And  from  his  limbs  he  threw  the  cloak  away  ; 
For  whom  would  not  such  love  make  desperate  ? 
And  nigher  came,  and  touched  her  throat,  and 
with  hands  violate 

Undid  the  cuirass,  and  the  crocus  gown. 

And  bared  the  breasts  of  polished  ivory. 

Till  from  the  waist  the  peplos  falling  down 
Left  visible  the  secret  mystery 
Which  to  no  lover  will  Athena  show. 

The  grand  cool  flanks,  the  crescent  thighs,  the 
bossy  hills  of  snow. 

Those  who  have  never  known  a lover’s  sin 
Let  them  not  read  my  ditty,  it  will  be 
To  their  dull  ears  so  musicless  and  thin 
That  they  will  have  no  joy  of  it,  but  ye 
To  whose  wan  cheeks  now  creeps  the  lingering 
smile. 

Ye  who  have  learned  who  Eros  is, — O listen 
yet  awhile. 

A little  space  he  let  his  greedy  eyes 

Rest  on  the  burnished  image,  till  mere  sight 
Half  swooned  for  surfeit  of  such  luxuries. 

And  then  his  lips  in  hungering  delight 


CHARMIDES 


105 


Fed  on  her  lips,  and  round  the  towered  neck 
He  flung  his  arms,  nor  cared  at  all  his  passion’s 
will  to  check. 

Never  I ween  did  lover  hold  such  tryst. 

For  all  night  long  he  murmured  honeyed 
word. 

And  saw  her  sweet  unravished  limbs,  and  kissed 
Her  pale  and  argent  body  undisturbed, 

And  paddled  with  the  polished  throat,  and 
pressed 

His  hot  and  beating  heart  upon  her  chill  and 
icy  breast. 

It  was  as  if  Numidian  javelins 

Pierced  through  and  through  his  wild  and 
whirling  brain, 

And  his  nerves  thrilled  like  throbbing  violins 
In  exquisite  pulsation,  and  the  pain 
Was  such  sweet  anguish  that  he  never  drew 
His  lips  from  hers  till  overhead  the  lark  of 
warning  flew. 

They  who  have  never  seen  the  daylight  peer 
Into  a darkened  room,  and  drawn  the  curtain. 
And  with  dull  eyes  and  wearied  from  some  dear 
And  worshipped  body  risen,  they  for  certain 
Will  never  know  of  what  I try  to  sing, 

How  long  the  last  kiss  was,  how  fond  and  late 
his  lingering 


106 


POEMS 


The  moon  was  girdled  with  a crystal  rim, 

The  sign  which  sliipmen  say  is  ominous 
Of  wrath  in  heaven,  the  wan  stars  were  dim. 

And  the  low  lightening  east  was  tremulous 
With  the  faint  fluttering  wings  of  flying  dawn. 
Ere  from  the  silent  sombre  shrine  his  lover  had 
withdrawn. 

Down  the  steep  rock  with  hurried  feet  and 
fast 

Cloml)  the  brave  lad,  and  reached  the  cave  of 
Pan, 

And  heard  the  goat-foot  snoring  as  he  passed, 
And  leapt  upon  a grassy  knoll  and  ran 
Like  a young  fawn  unto  an  olive  wood 
Which  in  a shady  valley  by  the  well-built  city 
stood ; 

And  sought  a little  stream,  which  well  he  knew. 
For  oftentimes  with  boyish  careless  shout 
The  green  and  crested  grebe  he  would  pursue. 
Or  snare  in  woven  net  the  silver  trout. 

And  down  amid  the  startled  reeds  he  lay 
Panting  in  breathless  sweet  affright,  and  waited 
for  the  day. 

On  the  green  bank  he  lay,  and  let  one  hand 
Dip  in  the  cool  dark  eddies  listlessly. 

And  soon  the  breath  of  morning  came  and  fanned 
His  hot  flushed  cheeks,  or  lifted  wantonly 


CHARMIDES 


lOf 


The  tangled  curls  from  off  his  forehead,  while 
He  on  the  running  water  gazed  with  strange 
and  secret  smile. 

And  soon  the  shepherd  in  rough  woollen  cloak 
With  his  long  crook  undid  the  wattled  cotes, 
And  from  the  stack  a thin  blue  wreath  of  smoke 
Curled  through  the  air  across  the  ripeningr 
oats. 

And  on  the  hill  the  yellow  house-dog  bayed 
As  through  the  crisp  and  rustling  fern  the  heavy 
cattle  strayed. 

And  when  the  light-foot  mower  went  afield 
Across  the  meadows  laced  with  threaded 
dew. 

And  the  sheep  bleated  on  the  misty  weald. 

And  from  its  nest  the  waking  corncrake 
flew. 

Some  woodmen  saw  him  lying  by  the  stream 
And  marvelled  much  that  any  lad  so  beautiful 
could  seem. 

Nor  deemed  him  born  of  mortals,  and  one  said, 
Ht  is  young  Hylas,  that  false  runaway 
Who  with  a Naiad  now  would  make  his  bed 
Forgetting  Herakles,’  but  others,  ^Nay, 

It  is  Narcissus,  his  own  paramour. 

Those  are  the  fond  and  crimson  lips  no  woman 
can  allure/ 


108 


POEMS 


And  when  they  nearer  came  a third  one  cried, 

‘ It  is  young  Dionysos  who  has  hid 
His  spear  and  fawnskin  by  the  river  side 
Weary  of  hunting  with  the  Bassarid, 

And  wise  indeed  were  we  away  to  fly : 

They  live  not  long  who  on  the  gods  immortal 
come  to  spy/ 

So  turned  they  back,  and  feared  to  look  behind, 
And  told  the  timid  swain  how  they  had  seen 
Amid  the  reeds  some  woodland  God  reclined. 
And  no  man  dared  to  cross  the  open  green. 
And  on  that  day  no  olive-tree  was  slain. 

Nor  rushes  cut,  but  all  desai-ted  was  thp  fair 
domain^ 

Save  when  the  neat-herd’s  lad,  his  empty  pail 
Well  slung  upon  his  back,  with  leap  and 
bound 

Raced  on  the  other  side,  and  stopped  to  hail. 
Hoping  that  he  some  comrade  new  had  found. 
And  gat  no  answer,  and  then  half  afraid 
Passed  on  his  simple  way,  or  down  the  still  and 
silent  glade 

A little  girl  ran  laughing  from  the  farm, 

Not  thinking  of  love’s  secret  mysteries. 

And  when  she  saw  the  white  and  gleaming 
arm 

And  all  his  manlihood,  with  longing  eyes 


CHARMIDES 


109 


Whose  passion  mocked  her  sweet  virginity 
Watched  him  awhile,  and  then  stole  back  sadly 
and  wearily. 


Far  off  he  heard  the  city’s  hum  and  noise. 

And  now  and  then  the  shriller  laughter  where 
The  passionate  purity  of  brown-limbed  boys 
Wrestled  or  raced  in  the  clear  healthful  air. 
And  now  and  then  a little  tinkling  bell 
As  the  shorn  wether  led  the  sheep  down  to  the 
mossy  well. 


Through  the  grey  willows  danced  the  fretful 
gnat. 

The  grasshopper  chirped  idly  from  the  tree, 

In  sleek  and  oily  coat  the  water-rat 
Breasting  the  little  ripples  manfully 
Made  for  the  wild-duck’s  nest,  from  bough  to 
bough 

Hopped  the  shy  finch,  and  the  huge  tortoise 
crept  across  the  slough. 


On  the  faint  wind  floated  the  silky  seeds 

As  the  bright  scythe  swept  through  the 
waving  grass, 

The  ouzel-cock  splashed  circles  in  the  reeds 
And  flecked  with  silver  whorls  the  forest’s 
glass, 


110 


POEMS 


Which  scarce  had  caught  again  its  imagery 
Ere  from  its  bed  the  dusky  tench  leapt  at  the 
dragon-fly 

But  little  care  had  he  for  any  thing 

Though  up  and  down  the  beech  the  squirrel 
played. 

And  from  the  copse  the  linnet  'gan  to  sing 
To  her  brown  mate  her  sweetest  serenade ; 

Ah  ! little  care  indeed,  for  he  had  seen 
The  breasts  of  Pallas  and  the  naked  wonder  of 
the  Queen. 

But  when  the  herdsman  called  his  straggling 
goats 

With  whistling  pipe  across  the  rocky  road. 
And  the  shard-beetle  with  its  trumpet-notes 
Boomed  through  the  darkening  woods,  and 
seemed  to  bode 

Of  coming  storm,  and  the  belated  crane 
Passed  homeward  like  a shadow,  and  the  dull 
big  drops  of  rain 

Fell  on  the  pattering  fig-leaves,  up  he  rose. 

And  from  the  gloomy  forest  went  his  way 
Past  sombre  homestead  and  wet  orchard-close. 
And  came  at  last  unto  a little  quay, 

And  called  his  mates  aboard,  and  took  his  seat 
On  the  high  poop,  and  pushed  from  land,  and 
loosed  the  dripping  sheet. 


CHARMIDES 


111 


And  steered  across  the  bay,  and  when  nine  suns 
Passed  down  the  long  and  laddered  way  of  gold, 
And  nine  pale  moons  liad  breathed  their  orisons 
To  the  chaste  stars  their  confessors,  or  told 
Their  dearest  secret  to  the  downy  moth 
That  will  not  fly  at  noonday,  through  the  foam 
and  surging  froth 

Came  a great  owl  with  yellow  sulphurous  eyes 
And  lit  upon  the  ship,  whose  timbers  creaked 
As  though  the  lading  of  three  argosies 

Were  in  the  hold,  and  flapped  its  wings  and 
shrieked. 

And  darkness  straightway  stole  across  the  deep, 
Sheathed  was  Orion’s  sword,  dread  Mars  him- 
self fled  down  the  steep, 

And  the  moon  hid  behind  a tawny  mask 

Of  drifting  cloud,  and  from  the  ocean's  marge 
Rose  the  red  plume,  the  huge  and  horned 
casque. 

The  seven-cubit  spear,  the  brazen  targe ! 

And  clad  in  bright  and  burnished  panoply 
Athena  strode  across  the  stretch  of  sick  and 
shivering  sea ! 

To  the  dull  sailors'  sight  her  loosened  locks 
Seemed  like  the  jagged  storm-rack,  and  hei 
feet 

Only  the  spume  that  floats  on  hidden  rocks. 


112 


POEMS 


And,  marking  how  the  rising  waters  beat 
Against  the  rolling  ship,  the  pilot  cried 
To  the  young  helmsman  at  the  stern  to  luff  to 
windward  side. 

But  he,  the  overbold  adulterer, 

A dear  profaner  of  great  mysteries. 

An  ardent  amorous  idolater. 

When  he  beheld  those  grand  relentless  eyes 
Laughed  loud  for  joy,  and  crying  out  ‘ I come  * 
Leapt  from  the  lofty  poop  into  the  chill  and 
churning  foam. 

Then  fell  from  the  high  heaven  one  bright 
star, 

One  dancer  left  the  circling  galaxy. 

And  back  to  Athens  on  her  clattering  car 
In  all  the  pride  of  venged  divinity 
Pale  Pallas  swept  with  shrill  and  steely  clank. 
And  a few  gurgling  bubbles  rose  where  her  boy 
lover  sank. 

And  the  mast  shuddered  as  the  gaunt  owl  flew 
With  mocking  hoots  after  the  wrathful 
Queen, 

And  the  old  pilot  bade  the  trembling  crew 
Hoist  the  big  sail,  and  told  how  he  had  seen 
Close  to  the  stern  a dim  and  giant  form. 

And  like  a dipping  swallow  the  stout  ship 
dashed  through  the  storm. 


CHARMIDES 


113 


And  no  man  dared  to  speak  of  Charmides 

Deeming  that  he  some  evil  thing  had  wrought, 
And  when  they  reached  the  strait  Symplegades 
They  beached  their  galley  on  the  shore,  and 
sought 

The  toll-gate  of  the  city  hastily, 

And  in  the  market  showed  their  brown  and 
pictured  pottery. 


U4 


POEMS 


n 

But  some  good  Triton-god  had  ruth,  and 
bare 

The  boy's  drowned  body  back  to  Grecian 
land, 

And  mermaids  combed  his  dank  and  dripping 
hair 

And  smoothed  his  brow,  and  loosed  his 
clenching  hand. 

Some  brought  sweet  spices  from  far  Araby, 

And  others  bade  the  halcyon  sing  her  softest 
lullaby 

And  when  he  neared  his  old  Athenian  home, 

A mighty  billow  rose  up  suddenly 
Upon  whose  oily  back  the  clotted  foam 
Lay  diapered  in  some  strange  fantasy. 

And  clasping  him  unto  its  glassy  breast 
Swept  landward,  like  a white-maned  steed  upon 
a venturous  quest  ’ 

Now  where  Colonos  leans  unto  the  sea 

There  lies  a long  and  level  stretch  of  lawn  ; 

Tf  e rabbit  knows  it,  and  the  mountain  bee 


CHARMIDES 


115 


For  it  deserts  Hymettus,  and  the  Faun 
Is  not  afraid,  for  never  through  the  day 
Comes  a cry  ruder  than  the  shout  of  shepherd 
lads  at  play. 


But  often  from  the  thorny  labyrinth 

And  tangled  branches  of  the  circling  wood 
The  stealthy  hunter  sees  young  Hyacinth 

Hurling  the  polished  disk,  and  draws  his  hood 
Over  his  guilty  gaze,  and  creeps  away. 

Nor  dares  to  wind  his  horn,  or — else  at  the  first 
break  of  day 


The  Dryads  come  and  throw  the  leathern  ball 
Along  the  reedy  shore,  and  circumvent 
Some  goat-eared  Pan  to  be  their  seneschal 
For  fear  of  bold  Poseidon's  ravishment. 

And  loose  their  girdles,  with  shy  timorous  eyes, 
Lest  from  the  surf  his  azure  arms  and  purple 
beard  should  rise. 

On  this  side  and  on  that  a rocky  cave. 

Hung  with  the  yellow-belled  laburnum,  stands ; 
Smooth  is  the  beach,  save  where  some  ebbing 
wave 

Leaves  its  faint  outline  etched  upon  the  sands. 
As  though  it  feared  to  be  too  soon  forgot 
By  the  green  rush,  its  playfellow, — and  yet,  it 
is  a spot 


116 


POEMS 


So  small,  that  the  inconstant  butterfly 

Could  steal  the  hoarded  money  from  each 
flower 

Ere  it  was  noon,  and  still  not  satisfy 
Its  over-greedy  love, — within  an  hour 
A sailor  boy,  were  he  but  rude  enow 
To  land  and  pluck  a garland  for  his  galley’s 
painted  prow. 


Would  almost  leave  the  little  meadow  bare. 

For  it  knows  nothing  of  great  pageantry. 

Only  a few  narcissi  here  and  there 
Stand  separate  in  sweet  austerity. 

Dotting  the  un-mown  grass  with  silver  stars. 

And  here  and  there  a daffodil  waves  tiny 
scimitars. 


Hither  the  billow  brought  him,  and  was  glad 
Of  such  dear  servitude,  and  where  the  land 
Was  virgin  of  all  waters  laid  the  lad 

Upon  the  golden  margent  of  the  strand, 

And  like  a lingering  lover  oft  returned 
To  kiss  those  pallid  limbs  which  once  with 
intense  fire  burned. 


Ere  the  wet  seas  had  quenched  that  holocaust. 
That  self-fed  flame,  that  passionate  lustihead, 
Ere  grisly  death  with  chill  and  nipping  frost 


CHARMIDES 


117 


Had  withered  up  those  lilies  white  and  red 
Which,  while  the  boy  would  through  the  forest 
range, 

Answered  each  other  in  a sweet  antiphonal 
counter-change. 

And  when  at  dawn  the  wood-nymphs,  hand-in- 
hand, 

Threaded  the  bosky  dell,  their  satyr  spied 
The  boy’s  pale  body  stretched  upon  the  sand. 
And  feared  Poseidon’s  treachery,  and  cried. 
And  like  bright  sunbeams  flitting  through  a 
glade 

Each  startled  Dryad  sought  some  safe  and  leafy 
ambuscade. 

Save  one  white  girl,  who  deemed  it  would  not  be 
So  dread  a thing  to  feel  a sea-god’s  arms 
Crushing  her  breasts  in  amorous  tyranny. 

And  longed  to  listen  to  those  subtle  charms 
Insidious  lovers  weave  when  they  would  win 
Some  fenced  fortress,  and  stole  back  again,  nor 
thought  it  sin 

To  yield  her  treasure  unto  one  so  fair. 

And  lay  beside  him,  thirsty  with  love’s  drouth. 
Called  him  soft  names,  played  with  his  tangled 
hair. 

And  with  hot  lips  made  havoc  of  his  mouth 


118 


POEMS 


Afraid  he  might  not  wake,  and  then  afraid 
Lest  he  might  wake  too  soon,  fled  back,  and 
then,  fond  renegade. 

Returned  to  fresh  assault,  and  all  day  long 
Sat  at  his  side,  and  laughed  at  her  new  toy. 
And  held  his  hand,  and  sang  her  sweetest  song. 
Then  frowned  to  see  how  fro  ward  was  the  boy 
Who  would  not  with  her  maidenhood  entwine. 
Nor  knew  that  three  days  since  his  eyes  had 
looked  on  Proserpine, 

Nor  knew  what  sacrilege  his  lips  had  done. 

But  said,  ^ He  will  awake,  I know  him  well. 
He  will  awake  at  evening  when  the  sun 
Hangs  his  red  shield  on  Corinth’s  citadel ; 
This  sleep  is  but  a cruel  treachery 
To  make  me  love  him  more,  and  in  some  cavern 
of  the  sea 

Deeper  than  ever  falls  the  fisher’s  line 
Already  a huge  Triton  blows  his  horn. 

And  weaves  a garland  from  the  crystalline 
And  drifting  ocean-tendrils  to  adorn 
The  emerald  pillars  of  our  bridal  bed, 

For  sphered  in  foaming  silver,  and  with  coral 
crowned  head. 

We  two  will  sit  upon  a throne  of  pearl, 

And  a blue  wave  will  be  our  canopy. 


CHARMIDES 


119 


And  at  our  feet  the  water-snakes  will  curl 
In  all  their  amethystine  panoply 
Of  diamonded  mail,  and  we  will  mark 
The  mullets  swimming  by  the  mast  of  some 
storm-foundered  bark, 

Vermilion-finned  with  eyes  of  bossy  gold 

Like  flakes  of  crimson  light,  and  the  great 
deep 

His  glassy-portaled  chamber  will  unfold. 

And  we  will  see  the  painted  dolphins  sleep 
Cradled  by  murmuring  halcyons  on  the  rocks 
Where  Proteus  in  quaint  suit  of  green  pastures 
his  monstrous  flocks. 

And  tremulous  opal-hued  anemones 

Will  wave  their  purple  fringes  where  we  tread 
Upon  the  mirrored  floor,  and  argosies 

Of  fishes  flecked  with  tawny  scales  will  thread 
The  drifting  cordage  of  the  shattered  wreck, 
And  honey-coloured  amber  beads  our  twining 
limbs  will  deck.* 

But  when  that  baffled  Lord  of  War  the  Sun 
With  gaudy  pennon  flying  passed  away 
Into  his  brazen  House,  and  one  by  one 
The  little  yellow  stars  began  to  stray 
Across  the  field  of  heaven,  ah  ! then  indeed 
She  feared  his  lips  upon  her  lips  would  never 
care  to  feed, 


120 


POEMS 


And  cried,  'Awake,  already  the  pale  moon 
Washes  the  trees  with  silver,  and  the  wave 
Creeps  grey  and  chilly  up  this  sandy  dune. 

The  croaking  frogs  are  out,  and  from  the 
cave 

The  night-jar  shrieks,  the  fluttering  bats  repass, 
And  the  brown  stoat  with  hollow  flanks  creeps 
through  the  dusky  grass. 

Nay,  though  thou  art  a God,  be  not  so  coy. 

For  in  yon  stream  there  is  a little  reed 
That  often  whispers  how  a lovely  boy 
Lay  with  her  once  upon  a grassy  mead. 

Who  when  his  cruel  pleasure  he  had  done 
Spread  wings  of  rustling  gold  and  soared  aloft 
into  the  sun. 

Be  not  so  coy,  the  laurel  trembles  still 
With  great  Apollo’s  kisses,  and  the  fir 
Whose  clustering  sisters  fringe  the  seaward  hill 
Hath  many  a tale  of  that  bold  ravisher 
Whom  men  call  Boreas,  and  I have  seen 
The  mocking  eyes  of  Hermes  through  the 
poplar’s  silvery  sheen. 

Even  the  jealous  Naiads  call  me  fair, 

And  every  morn  a young  and  ruddy  swain 
Woos  me  with  apples  and  with  locks  of  hair, 

And  seeks  to  soothe  my  virginal  disdain 


CHARMIDES 


121 


By  all  the  gifts  the  gentle  wood-nymphs  love  ; 
But  yesterday  he  brought  to  me  an  iris-plumaged 
dove 


With  little  crimson  feet,  which  with  its  store 
Of  seven  spotted  eggs  the  cruel  lad 
Had  stolen  from  the  lofty  sycamore 

At  daybreak,  when  her  amorous  comrade  had 
Flown  off  in  search  of  berried  juniper 
Which  most  they  love;  the  fretful  wasp,  that 
earliest  vintager 


Of  the  blue  grapes,  hath  not  persistency 
So  constant  as  this  simple  shepherd-boy 
For  my  poor  lips,  his  joyous  purity 

And  laughing  sunny  eyes  might  well  decoy 
A Dryad  from  her  oath  to  Artemis  ; 

For  very  beautiful  is  he,  his  mouth  was  made 
to  kiss ; 


His  argent  forehead,  like  a rising  moon 
Over  the  dusky  hills  of  meeting  brows. 

Is  crescent  shaped,  the  hot  and  Tyrian  noon 
Leads  from  the  myrtle-grove  no  goodlier 
spouse 

For  Cytheraea,  the  first  silky  down 
Fringes  his  blushing  cheeks,  and  his  young 
limbs  are  strong  and  brown : 


122 


POEMS 


And  he  is  rich,  and  fat  and  fleecy  herds 
Of  bleating  sheep  upon  his  meadows  lie. 

And  many  an  earthen  bowl  of  yellow  curds 
Is  in  his  homestead  for  the  thievish  fly 
To  swim  and  drown  in,  the  pink  clover  mead 
Keeps  its  sweet  store  for  him,  and  he  can  pipe 
on  oaten  reed. 

And  yet  I love  him  not ; it  was  for  thee 

I kept  my  love ; I knew  that  thou  would’st 
come 

To  rid  me  of  this  pallid  chastity, 

Thou  fairest  flower  of  the  flowerless  foam 
Of  all  the  wide  iEgean,  brightest  star 
Of  ocean’s  azure  heavens  where  the  mirrored 
planets  are ! 

I knew  that  thou  would’st  come,  for  when  at  first 
The  dry  wood  burgeoned,  and  the  sap  of 
Spring 

Swelled  in  my  green  and  tender  bark  or  burst 
To  myriad  multitudinous  blossoming 
Which  mocked  the  midnight  with  its  mimic 
moons 

That  did  not  dread  the  dawn,  and  first  the 
thrushes’  rapturous  tunes 

Startled  the  squirrel  from  its  granary. 

And  cuckoo  flowers  fringed  the  narrow  lane, 
Through  my  young  leaves  a sensuous  ecstasy 


CHARMIDES 


123 


Crept  like  new  wine,  and  every  mossy  vein 
Throbbed  with  the  fitful  pulse  of  amorous  blood, 
And  the  wild  winds  of  passion  shook  my  slim 
stem’s  maidenhood. 

The  trooping  fawns  at  evening  came  and  laid 
Their  cool  black  noses  on  my  lowest  boughs. 
And  on  my  topmost  branch  the  blackbird  made 
A little  nest  of  grasses  for  his  spouse. 

And  now  and  then  a twittering  wren  would  light 
On  a thin  twig  which  hardly  bare  the  weight  of 
such  delight. 

I was  the  Attic  shepherd’s  trysting  place. 
Beneath  my  shadow  Amaryllis  lay. 

And  round  my  trunk  w'ould  laughing  Daphnis 
chase 

The  timorous  girl,  till  tired  out  with  play 
She  felt  his  hot  breath  stir  her  tangled  hair. 

And  turned,  and  looked,  and  fled  no  more  from 
such  delightful  snare. 


Then  come  away  unto  my  ambuscade 

Where  clustering  woodbine  weaves  a canopy 
For  amorous  pleasaunce,  and  the  rustling  shade 
Of  Paphian  myrtles  seems  to  sanctify 
The  dearest  rites  of  love ; there  in  the  cool 
And  green  recesses  of  its  farthest  depth  there  is 
a pool. 


124 


POEMS 


The  ouzel’s  haunt^  the  wild  bee's  pasturage, 

For  round  its  rim  great  creamy  lilies  float 
Through  their  flat  leaves  in  verdant  anchorage, 
Each  cup  a white-sailed  golden-laden  boat 
Steered  by  a dragon-fly, — be  not  afraid 
To  leave  this  wan  and  wave-kissed  shore,  surely 
the  place  was  made 


For  lovers  such  as  we ; the  Cyprian  Queen, 

One  arm  around  her  boyish  paramour. 

Strays  often  there  at  eve,  and  I have  seen 
The  moon  strip  off  her  misty  vestiture 
For  young  Endymion’s  eyes  ; be  not  afraid. 

The  panther  feet  of  Dian  never  tread  that  secret 
glade. 


Nay  if  thou  will’st,  back  to  the  beating  brine, 
Back  to  the  boisterous  billow  let  us  go. 

And  walk  all  day  beneath  the  hyaline 
Huge  vault  of  Neptune’s  watery  portico. 

And  watch  the  purple  monsters  of  the  deep 
Sport  in  ungainly  play,  and  from  his  lair  keen 
Xiphias  leap. 


For  if  my  mistress  find  me  lying  here 
She  will  not  ruth  or  gentle  pity  show, 

But  lay  her  boar-spear  down,  and  with  austere 
Relentless  fingers  string  the  cornel  bow. 


CHARMIDES 


126 


And  draw  the  feathered  notch  against  her  breast, 
And  loose  the  arched  cord ; ay,  even  now  upon 
the  quest 

I hear  her  hurrying  feet, — awake,  awake. 

Thou  laggard  in  love’s  battle  I once  at  least 
l/Ct  me  drink  deep  of  passion’s  wine,  and  slake 
My  parched  being  with  the  nectaroas  feast 
Which  even  Gods  affect ! O come,  Love,  come, 
Still  we  have  time  to  reach  the  cavern  of  thine 
azure  home.’ 

Scarce  had  she  spoken  when  the  shuddering 
trees 

Shook,  and  the  leaves  divided,  and  the  air 
Grew  conscious  of  a God,  and  the  grey  seas 
Crawled  backward,  and  a long  and  dismal 
blare 

Blew  from  some  tasselled  horn,  a sleuth-hound 
bayed. 

And  like  a flame  a barbed  reed  flew  whizzing 
down  the  glade. 

And  where  the  little  flowers  of  her  breast 
Just  brake  into  their  milky  blossoming, 

This  murderous  paramour,  this  unbidden  guest, 
Pierced  and  struck  deep  in  horrid  chambering. 
And  ploughed  a bloody  furrow  with  its  dart. 

And  dug  a long  red  road,  and  cleft  with  winged 
death  her  heart. 


126 


POEMS 


Sobbing  her  life  out  with  a bitter  cry 
On  the  boy’s  body  fell  the  Dryad  maid. 
Sobbing  for  incomplete  virginity. 

And  raptures  unenjoyed,  and  pleasures  dead, 
And  all  the  pain  of  things  unsatisfied, 

And  the  bright  drops  of  crimson  youth  crept 
down  her  throbbing  side. 


Ah  ! pitiful  it  was  to  hear  her  moan, 

And  very  pitiful  to  see  her  die 
Ere  she  had  yielded  up  her  sweets,  or  known 
The  joy  of  passion,  that  dread  mystery 
Which  not  to  know  is  not  to  live  at  all. 

And  yet  to  know  is  to  be  held  in  death’s  most 
deadly  thrall. 


But  as  it  hapt  the  Queen  of  Cythere, 

Who  with  Adonis  all  night  long  had  lain 
Within  some  shepherd’s  hut  in  Arcady, 

On  team  of  silver  doves  and  gilded  wain 
Was  journeying  Paphos-ward,  high  up  afar 
From  mortal  ken  between  the  mountains  and 
the  morning  star. 

And  when  low  down  she  spied  the  hapless  pair. 
And  heard  the  Oread’s  faint  despairing  cry, 
Whose  cadence  seemed  to  play  upon  the  air 
As  though  it  were  a viol,  hastily 


CHARMIDES 


127 


She  bade  her  pigeons  fold  each  straining  plume. 
And  dropt  to  eartli,  and  reached  the  strand,  and 
saw  their  dolorous  doom. 


For  as  a gardener  turning  back  his  head 
To  catch  the  last  notes  of  the  linnet,  mows 
With  careless  scythe  too  near  some  flower  bed. 
And  cuts  the  thorny  pillar  of  the  rose. 

And  with  the  flower’s  loosened  loveliness 
Strews  the  brown  mould ; or  as  some  shepherd 
lad  in  wantonness 

Driving  his  little  flock  along  the  mead 

Treads  down  tw'o  daffodils,  which  side  by 
side 

Have  lured  the  lady-bird  with  yellow  brede 
And  made  the  gaudy  moth  forget  its  pride. 
Treads  down  their  brimming  golden  chalices 
Under  light  feet  which  were  not  made  for  such 
rude  ravages ; 


Or  as  a schoolboy  tired  of  his  book 

Flings  himself  down  upon  the  reedy  grass 
And  plucks  two  water-lilies  from  the  brook. 

And  for  a time  forgets  the  hour  glass. 

Then  wearies  of  their  sweets,  and  goes  his 
way, 

And  lets  the  hot  sun  kill  them,  even  so  these 
lovers  lay. 


128 


POEMS 


And  Venus  cried,  ^It  is  dread  Artemis 

Whose  bitter  hand  hath  wrought  this  cruelty. 
Or  else  that  mightier  maid  whose  care  it  is 
To  guard  her  strong  and  stainless  majesty 
Upon  the  hill  Athenian, — alas  ! 

That  they  who  loved  so  well  unloved  into  death’s 
house  should  pass.’ 

So  with  soft  hands  she  laid  the  boy  and  girl 
In  the  great  golden  waggon  tenderly, 

Her  white  throat  whiter  than  a moony  pearl 
Just  threaded  with  a blue  vein’s  tapestry 
Had  not  yet  ceased  to  throb,  and  still  her  breast 
Swayed  like  a wind-stirred  lily  in  ambiguous 
unrest. 

And  then  each  pigeon  spread  its  milky  van, 

The  bright  car  soared  into  the  dawning  sky. 
And  like  a cloud  the  aerial  caravan 
Passed  over  the  iEgean  silently. 

Till  the  faint  air  was  troubled  with  the  song 
From  the  wan  mouths  that  call  on  bleeding 
Thammuz  all  night  long. 

But  when  the  doves  had  reached  their  wonted 
goal 

Where  the  wide  stair  of  orbed  marble  dips 
Its  snows  into  the  sea,  her  fluttering  soul 
Just  shook  the  trembling  petals  of  her  lips 


CHARMIDES 


129 


And  passed  into  the  void,  and  Venus  knew 
That  one  fair  maid  the  less  would  walk  amifk 
her  retinue. 

And  bade  her  servants  carve  a cedar  chest 
With  all  the  wonder  of  this  history. 

Within  whose  scented  womb  their  limbs  should 
rest 

Where  olive-trees  make  tender  the  blue  sky 
On  the  low  hills  of  Paphos,  and  the  Faun 
Pipes  in  the  noonday,  and  the  nightingale  sings 
on  till  dawn. 

Nor  failed  they  to  obey  her  hest,  and  ere 
The  morning  bee  had  stung  the  daffodil 
With  tiny  fretful  spear,  or  from  its  lair 
The  waking  stag  had  leapt  across  the  rill 
And  roused  the  ouzel,  or  the  lizard  crept 
Athwart  the  sunny  rock,  beneath  the  grass  their 
bodies  slept. 

And  when  day  brake,  within  that  silver  shrine 
Fed  by  the  flames  of  cressets  tremulous. 

Queen  Venus  knelt  and  prayed  to  Proserpine 
That  she  whose  beauty  made  Death  amorous 
Should  beg  a guerdon  from  her  pallid  Lord, 

And  let  Desire  pass  across  dread  Charon's  icy 
ford. 


ISO 


m 

IN  melancholy  moonless  Acheron, 

Far  from  the  goodly  earth  and  joyous  day. 
Where  no  spring  ever  buds,  nor  ripening  sun 
Weighs  down  the  apple  trees,  nor  flowery 
May 

Chequers  with  chestnut  blooms  the  grassy  floor. 
Where  thrushes  never  sing,  and  piping  linnets 
mate  no  more. 

There  by  a dim  and  dark  Lethsean  well 
Young  Charmides  was  lying;  wearily 
He  plucked  the  blossoms  from  the  asphodel, 
And  with  its  little  rifled  treasury 
Strewed  the  dull  waters  of  the  dusky  stream. 
And  watched  the  white  stars  founder,  and  the 
land  was  like  a dream. 

When  as  he  gazed  into  the  watery  glass 

And  through  his  brown  hair’s  curly  tangles 
scanned 

His  own  wan  face,  a shadow  seemed  to  pass 
Across  the  mirror,  and  a little  hand 


CHARMIDES 


131 


Stole  into  his,  and  warm  lips  timidly 
Brushed  his  pale  cheeks,  and  breathed  theii 
secret  forth  into  a sigh. 


Then  turned  he  round  his  weary  eyes  and  saw, 
And  ever  nigher  still  their  faces  came. 

And  nigher  ever  did  their  young  mouths  draw 
Until  they  seemed  one  perfect  rose  of  flame, 
And  longing  arms  around  her  neck  he  cast. 

And  felt  her  throbbing  bosom,  and  his  breath 
came  hot  and  fast. 


And  all  his  hoarded  sweets  were  hers  to  kiss. 
And  all  her  maidenhood  was  his  to  slay, 

And  limb  to  limb  in  long  and  rapturous  bliss 
Their  passion  waxed  and  waned, — O why 
essay 

To  pipe  again  of  love,  too  venturous  reed  ! 
Enough,  enough  that  Eros  laughed  upon  that 
flowerless  mead. 


Too  venturous  poesy,  O why  essay 

To  pipe  again  of  passion  ! fold  thy  wings 
O’er  daring  Icarus  and  bid  thy  lay 

Sleep  hidden  in  the  lyre’s  silent  strings 
Till  thou  hast  found  the  old  Castalian  rill, 

Or  from  the  Lesbian  waters  plucked  drowned 
Sappho’s  golden  quill ! 


132 


POEMS 


Enough,  enough  that  he  whose  life  had  been 
A fiery  pulse  of  sin,  a splendid  shame, 

G^uld  in  the  loveless  land  of  Hades  glean 

One  scorching  harvest  from  those  fields  of 
flame 

Where  passion  walks  with  naked  unshod  feet 
And  is  not  wounded, — ah ! enough  that  once 
their  lips  could  meet 

In  that  wild  throb  when  all  existences 
Seemed  narrowed  to  one  single  ecstasy 
Which  dies  through  its  own  sweetness  and  the 
stress 

Of  too  much  pleasure,  ere  Persephone 
Had  bade  them  serve  her  by  the  ebon  throne 
Of  the  pale  God  who  in  the  fields  of  Enn.s 
loosed  her  zone. 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


IMPRESSIONS 


I 

LES  SILHOUETTES 

The  sea  is  flecked  with  bars  of  grey, 
The  dull  dead  wind  is  out  of  tune, 
And  like  a withered  leaf  the  moon 
Is  blown  across  the  stormy  bay. 

Etched  clear  upon  the  pallid  sand 
Lies  the  black  boat ; a sailor  boy 
Clambers  aboard  in  careless  joy 
With  laughing  face  and  gleaming  hand. 

And  overhead  the  curlews  cry. 

Where  through  the  dusky  upland  grass 
The  young  brown-throated  reapers  pass. 
Like  silhouettes  against  the  sky. 


135 


136 


POEMS 


n 


LA  FUITE  DE  LA  LUNE 


TO  outer  senses  there  is  peace, 

A dreamy  ]ieace  on  either  hand 
Deep  silence  in  the  shadowy  land. 
Deep  silence  where  the  shadows  cease. 


Save  for  a cry  that  echoes  shrill 
From  some  lone  bird  disconsolate ; 
A corncrake  calling  to  its  mate ; 
The  answer  from  the  misty  hill. 


And  suddenly  the  moon  withdraws 
Her  sickle  from  the  lightening  skies, 
And  to  her  sombre  cavern  flies. 
Wrapped  in  a veil  of  yellow  gauze. 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


137 


THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS 

Rid  of  the  world’s  injustice,  and  his  pain. 

He  rests  at  last  beneath  God’s  veil  of 
blue : 

Taken  from  life  when  life  and  love  were  new 
The  youngest  of  the  martyrs  here  is  lain. 

Fair  as  Sebastian,  and  as  early  slain. 

No  cypress  shades  his  grave,  no  funeral  yew. 
But  gentle  violets  weeping  with  the  dew 
Weave  on  his  bones  an  ever-blossoming  chain. 

O proudest  heart  that  broke  for  misery  ! 

O sweetest  lips  since  those  of  Mitylene  ! 

O poet-painter  of  our  English  Land  ! 

Thy  name  was  writ  in  water it  shall  stand  ; 

And  tears  like  mine  will  keep  thy  memory 
green, 

As  Isabella  did  her  Basil- tree. 


Romk. 


POEMS 


THEOCRITUS 


A VILT.ANELLE 


O SINGER  of  Persephone ! 

In  the  dim  meadows  desolate 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily  ? 


Still  through  the  ivy  flits  the  bee 
Where  Amaryllis  lies  in  state ; 

O Singer  of  Persephone  I 

Simjetha  calls  on  Hecate 

And  hears  the  wild  dogs  at  the  gate 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 


Still  by  the  light  and  laughing  sea 
Poor  Polypheme  bemoans  his  fate  ; 
O Singer  of  Persephone  I 

And  still  in  boyish  rivalry 

Young  Daphnis  challenges  his  mate 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily  ? 

Slim  Lacon  keeps  a goat  for  thee. 

For  thee  the  jocund  shepherds  wait 
O Singer  of  Persephone  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


139 


IN  THE  GOLD  ROOM 

A HARMONY 

Her  ivory  hands  on  the  ivory  keys 
Strayed  in  a fitful  fantasy. 

Like  the  silver  gleam  when  the  poplar  trees 
Rustle  their  pale  leaves  listlessly. 

Or  the  drifting  foam  of  a restless  sea 
When  the  waves  show  their  teeth  in  the  flying 
breeze. 

Her  gold  hair  fell  on  the  wall  of  gold 
Like  the  delicate  gossamer  tangles  spun 
On  the  burnished  disk  of  the  marigold. 

Or  the  sunflower  turning  to  meet  the  sun 
When  the  gloom  of  the  dark  blue  night  is 
done. 

And  the  spear  of  the  lily  is  aureoled. 

And  her  sweet  red  lips  on  these  lips  of  mine 
Burned  like  the  ruby  fire  set 
In  the  swinging  lamp  of  a crimson  shrine, 

Or  the  bleeding  wounds  of  the  pomegranate. 
Or  the  heart  of  the  lotus  drenched  and  wet 
With  the  spilt-out  blood  of  the  rose-red  wine 


140 


POEMS 


BAIXADE  DE  MARGUERITE 

(normaxde) 

I AM  weary  of  lying  within  the  chase 

When  the  knights  are  meeting  in  market- 
place. 

Nay,  go  not  thou  to  the  red-roofed  town 
Lest  the  hoofs  of  the  war-horse  tread  thee  down 

But  I would  not  go  where  the  Squires  ride, 

I would  only  walk  by  my  Lady's  side. 

Alack  ! and  alack  ! thou  art  overbold, 

A Forester’s  son  may  not  eat  off  gold. 

Will  she  love  me  the  less  that  my  Father  is  seen 
Each  Martinmas  day  in  a doublet  green  ? 

Perchance  she  is  sewing  at  tapestrie. 

Spindle  and  loom  are  not  meet  for  thee. 

Ah,  if  she  is  working  the  arras  bright 
I might  ravel  the  threads  by  the  fire-light. 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


141 


Perchance  she  is  hunting  of  the  deer, 

How  could  you  follow  o’er  hill  and  mere  ? 

Ah,  if  she  is  riding  with  the  court, 

I might  run  beside  her  and  wind  the  morte. 

Perchance  she  is  kneeling  in  St.  Denys, 

(On  her  soul  may  our  Lady  have  gramercy  !) 

Ah,  if  she  is  praying  in  lone  chapelle, 

I might  swing  the  censer  and  ring  the  bell. 

Come  in,  my  son,  for  you  look  sae  pale. 

The  father  shall  fill  thee  a stoup  of  ale. 

But  who  are  these  knights  in  bright  array  ? 
Is  it  a pageant  the  rich  folks  play  ? 

'T  is  the  King  of  England  from  over  sea. 
Who  has  come  unto  visit  our  fair  countrie. 

But  why  does  the  curfew  toll  sae  low  ? 

And  why  do  the  mourners  walk  a-row  ? 

O *t  is  Hugh  of  Amiens  my  sister’s  son 
Who  is  lying  stark,  for  his  day  is  done. 

Nay,  nay,  for  I see  white  lilies  clear. 

It  is  no  strong  man  who  lies  on  the  bier. 


142 


POEMS 


0 'tis  old  Dame  Jeannette  that  kept  the  hall, 

1 knew  she  would  die  at  the  autumn  fall. 

Dame  Jeannette  had  not  that  gold-brown  hair. 
Old  Jeannette  was  not  a maiden  fair. 

O 'tis  none  of  our  kith  and  none  of  our  kin, 
(Her  soul  may  our  Lady  assoil  from  sin  !) 

But  I hear  the  boy’s  voice  chaunting  sweet, 

^ Elle  est  morte,  la  Marguerite.' 

Come  in,  my  son,  and  lie  on  the  bed, 

And  let  the  dead  folk  bury  their  dead. 

O mother,  you  know  1 loved  her  true : 

O mother,  hath  one  grave  room  for  two? 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


14d 


THE  DOLE  OF  THE  KING’S 
DAUGHTER 

(bketon) 

SEVEN  stars  in  the  still  water. 

And  seven  in  the  sky ; 

Seven  sins  on  the  King’s  daughter. 

Deep  in  her  soul  to  lie. 

Red  roses  are  at  her  feet, 

(Roses  are  red  in  her  red-gold  hair) 
And  O where  her  bosom  and  girdle  meet 
Red  roses  are  hidden  there. 

Fair  is  the  knight  who  lieth  slain 
Amid  the  rush  and  reed. 

See  the  lean  fishes  that  are  fain 
Upon  dead  men  to  feed. 

Sweet  is  the  page  that  lieth  there, 

(Cloth  of  gold  is  goodly  prey,) 

See  the  black  ravens  in  the  air. 

Black,  O black  as  the  night  are  they. 


144 


POEMS 


What  do  they  there  so  stark  and  dead  ? 

(There  is  blood  upon  her  hand) 

Why  are  the  lilies  flecked  with  red  ? 

(There  is  blood  on  the  river  sand.) 

There  are  two  that  ride  from  the  south  and 
east, 

And  two  from  the  north  and  west, 

For  the  black  raven  a goodly  feast. 

For  the  King’s  daughter  rest. 

There  is  one  man  who  loves  her  true, 

(Red,  O red,  is  the  stain  of  gore !) 

He  hath  duggen  a grave  by  the  darksome 
yew, 

(One  grave  will  do  for  four.) 

No  moon  in  the  still  heaven. 

In  the  black  water  none. 

The  sins  on  her  soul  are  seven, 

The  sin  upon  his  is  one. 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


145 


AMOR  INTELLECTUALIS 

OFT  have  we  trod  the  vales  of  Castaly 

And  heard  sweet  notes  of  sylvan  music 
blown 

From  antique  reeds  to  common  folk  unknown  : 
And  often  launched  our  bark  upon  that  sea 
Which  the  nine  Muses  hold  in  empery. 

And  ploughed  free  furrows  through  the  wave 
and  foam, 

Nor  spread  reluctant  sail  for  more  safe  home 
Till  we  had  freighted  well  our  argosy. 

Of  which  despoilM  treasures  these  remain, 
Sordello’s  passion,  and  the  honeyed  line 
Of  young  Endymion,  lordly  Tamburlaine 

Driving  his  pampered  jades,  and,  more  than 
these. 

The  seven-fold  vision  of  the  Florentine, 

And  grave-browed  Milton’s  solemn  harmonies. 


B 


146 


POEMS 


SANTA  DECCA 

The  Gods  are  dead : no  longer  do  we  bring 
To  grey-eyed  Pallas  crowns  of  olive- 
leaves  ! 

Demeter’s  child  no  more  hath  tithe  of  sheaves, 
And  in  the  noon  the  careless  shepherds  sing. 

For  Pan  is  dead,  and  all  the  wantoning 
By  secret  glade  and  devious  haunt  is  o’er  : 
Young  Hylas  seeks  the  water-springs  no  more ; 
Great  Pan  is  dead,  and  Mary’s  son  is  King. 

And  yet — perchance  in  this  sea-tranced  isle, 
Chewing  the  bitter  fruit  of  memory. 

Some  God  lies  hidden  in  the  asphodel. 

Ah  Love!  if  such  there  be,  then  it  were  well 
For  us  to  fly  his  anger : nay,  but  see. 

The  leaves  are  stirring : let  us  watch  awhile. 


Corfu. 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


14T 


A VISION 

TWO  crowned  Kings,  and  One  that  stood 
alone 

With  no  green  weight  of  laurels  round  his 
head. 

But  with  sad  eyes  as  one  uncomforted, 

And  wearied  with  man’s  never-ceasing  moan 
For  sins  no  bleating  victim  can  atone. 

And  sweet  long  lips  with  tears  and  kisses  fed. 
Girt  was  he  in  a garment  black  and  red, 

And  at  his  feet  I marked  a broken  stone 

Which  sent  up  lilies,  dove-like,  to  his  knees. 
Now  at  their  sight,  my  heart  being  lit  with  flame, 
I cried  to  Beatrice,  ^Who  are  these 
And  she  made  answer,  knowing  well  each  name, 
* iEschylos  first,  the  second  Sophokles, 

And  last  (wide  stream  of  tears  !)  Euripides.' 


148 


POEMS 


IMPRESSION  DE  VOYAGE 

The  sea  was  sapphire  coloured,  and  the  sky 
Burned  like  a heated  opal  through  the 
air ; 

We  hoisted  sail ; the  wind  was  blowing  fair 
For  the  blue  lands  that  to  the  eastward  lie. 

From  the  steep  prow  I marked  with  quickening 
eye 

Zakynthos,  every  olive  grove  and  creek, 
Ithaca’s  cliff,  Lycaon’s  snowy  peak. 

And  all  the  flower-strewn  hills  of  Arcady. 

The  flapping  of  the  sail  against  the  mast, 

The  ripple  of  the  water  on  the  side. 

The  ripple  of  girls’  laughter  at  the  stern, 

The  only  sounds  : — when  ’gan  the  West  to  burn, 
And  a red  sun  upon  the  seas  to  ride, 

I stood  upon  the  soil  of  Greece  at  last  I 


Katakouil 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


149 


THE  GRAVE  OF  SHELLEY 

Like  bumt-out  torches  by  a sick  man’s  bed 
^ Gaunt  cypress-trees  stand  round  the  sun- 
bleached  stone ; 

Here  doth  the  little  night-owl  make  her 
throne. 

And  the  slight  lizard  show  his  jewelled  head. 
And,  where  the  chaliced  poppies  flame  to  red, 

In  the  still  chamber  of  yon  pyramid 
Surely  some  Old-World  Sphinx  lurks  darkly 
hid. 

Grim  warder  of  this  pleasaunce  of  the  dead. 

Ah  ! sweet  indeed  to  rest  within  the  womb 
Of  Earth,  great  mother  of  eternal  sleep, 

But  sweeter  far  for  thee  a restless  tomb 
In  the  blue  cavern  of  an  echoing  deep. 

Or  where  the  tall  ships  founder  in  the  gloom 
Against  the  rocks  of  some  wave-shattered 
steep. 


Romb. 


uo 


POEMS 


BY  THE  ARNO 

The  oleander  on  the  wall 

Grows  crimson  in  the  dawning  light, 
Though  the  grey  shadows  of  the  night 
Lie  yet  on  Florence  like  a pall. 

The  dew  is  bright  upon  the  hill. 

And  bright  the  blossoms  overhead, 

But  ah  ! the  grasshoppers  have  fled, 

The  little  Attic  song  is  still. 

Only  the  leaves  are  gently  stirred 
By  the  soft  breathing  of  the  gale. 

And  in  the  almond-scented  vale 
The  lonely  nightingale  is  heard. 

The  day  will  make  thee  silent  soon, 

O nightingale  sing  on  for  love  ! 

While  yet  upon  the  shadowy  grove 
Splinter  the  arrows  of  the  moon. 

Before  across  the  silent  lawn 
In  sea-green  vest  the  morning  steals. 

And  to  love’s  frightened  eyes  reveals 
The  long  white  fingers  of  the  dawn 


FLOWERS  OF  GOLD 


151 


Fast  climbing  up  the  eastern  sky 
To  grasp  and  slay  the  shuddering  night. 
All  careless  of  my  heart’s  delight, 

Or  if  the  nightingale  should  die. 


IMPRESSIONS  DE  THfilTRE 


FABIEN  DEI  FRANCIII 


To  My  Friend  Henry  Irving 

The  silent  room,  the  heavy  creeping  shade. 
The  dead  that  travel  fast,  the  opening 
door. 

The  murdered  brother  rising  through  the  floor, 
The  ghost’s  wdiite  fingers  on  thy  shoulders  laid, 
And  then  the  lonely  duel  in  the  glade. 

The  broken  swords,  the  stifled  scream,  the 
gore, 

Thy  grand  revengeful  eyes  when  all  is  o’er, — 
These  things  are  well  enough, — but  thou  wert 
made 

For  more  august  creation  ! frenzied  Lear 
Should  at  thy  bidding  wander  on  the  heath 
With  the  shrill  fool  to  mock  him,  Romeo 
For  thee  should  lure  his  love,  and  desperate  fear 
Pluck  Richard’s  recreant  dagger  from  its  sheath — 
Thou  trumpet  set  for  Shakespeare’s  lips  to 
blow  ! 


165 


156 


POEMS 


PHl^DRE 

To  Sarah  Bernhardt 

HOW  vain  and  dull  this  common  world  must 
seem 

To  such  a One  as  thou,  who  should'st  have 
talked 

At  Florence  with  Mirandola,  or  walked 
Through  the  cool  olives  of  the  Academe  : 

Thou  should'st  have  gathered  reeds  from  a green 
stream 

For  Goat-foot  Pan’s  shrill  piping,  and  have 
played 

With  the  white  girls  in  that  Phaeacian  glade 
Where  grave  Odysseus  wakened  from  his  dream. 

Ah  ! surely  once  some  urn  of  Attic  clay 

Held  thy  wan  dust,  and  thou  hast  come  again 
Back  to  this  common  world  so  dull  and  vain. 
For  thou  wert  weary  of  the  sunless  day. 

The  heavy  fields  of  scentless  asphodel. 

The  loveless  lips  with  which  men  kiss  in  Hell. 


IMPRESSIONS  DE  THEATRE 


157 


^VRITTEN  AT  THE  LYCEUM 
THEATRE 

I 

PORTIA 

To  Ellen  Terry 

I MARVEL  not  Bassanio  was  so  bold 
To  peril  all  he  had  upon  the  lead. 

Or  that  proud  Aragon  bent  low  his  head 
Or  that  Morocco’s  fiery  heart  grew  cold  : 

For  in  that  gorgeous  dress  of  beaten  gold 
Which  is  more  golden  than  the  golden  sun 
No  woman  Veronese  looked  upon 
Was  half  so  fair  as  thou  whom  I behold. 

Yet  fairer  when  with  wisdom  as  your  shield 
The  sober-suited  lawyer's  gown  you  donned^ 
And  would  not  let  the  laws  of  Venice  yield 
Antonio’s  heart  to  that  accursed  Jew — 

O Portia ! take  my  heart ; it  is  thy  due : 

I think  1 will  not  quarrel  with  the  Bond« 


158 


POEMS 


n 

QUEEN  HENRIETTA  MARIA 
To  Ellen  Terry 

IN  the  lone  tent,  waiting  for  victory, 

She  stands  with  eyes  marred  by  the  mists 
of  pain. 

Like  some  wan  lily  overdrenched  with  rain : 
The  clamorous  clang  of  arms,  the  ensanguined 
sky, 

War’s  ruin,  and  the  wreck  of  chivalry 

To  her  proud  soul  no  common  fear  can  bring; 
Bravely  she  tarrieth  for  her  Lord  the  King, 
Her  soul  a-flame  with  passionate  ecstasy. 

O Hair  of  Gold ! O Crimson  Lips  ! O Face 
Made  for  the  luring  and  the  love  of  man  ! 
With  thee  I do  forget  the  toil  and  stress. 

The  loveless  road  that  knows  no  resting  place. 
Time’s  straitened  pulse,  the  soul’s  dread 
weariness. 

My  freedom,  and  my  life  republican  1 


i 


IMPRESSIONS  DE  THMtRE 


159 


m 

GAMMA 

To  Ellen  Terry 

AS  one  who  poring  on  a Grecian  urn 

Scans  the  fair  shapes  some  Attic  hand 
hath  made, 

God  with  slim  goddess,  goodly  man  with 
maid, 

And  for  their  beauty’s  sake  is  loth  to  turn 
And  face  the  obvious  day,  must  I not  yearn 
For  many  a secret  moon  of  indolent  bliss. 
When  in  the  midmost  shrine  of  Artemis 
1 see  thee  standing,  antique-limbed,  and  stern  ? 

And  yet — methinks  I ’d  rather  see  thee  play 
That  serpent  of  old  Nile,  whose  witchery 
Made  Emperors  drunken, — come,  great  Egypt, 
shake 

Our  stage  with  all  thy  mimic  pageants  ! Nay^ 
I am  grown  sick  of  unreal  passions,  make 
The  world  thine  Actium,  me  thine  Anthony  ! 


PANTHEA 


PANTHEA 

Nay,  let  US  walk  from  fire  unto  fire, 

From  passionate  pain  to  deadlier  de- 
light,— 

r am  too  young  to  live  without  desire. 

Too  young  art  thou  to  waste  this  summer 
night 

Asking  those  idle  questions  which  of  old 
Man  sought  of  seer  and  oracle,  and  no  reply  was 
told. 

For,  sweet,  to  feel  is  better  than  to  know. 

And  wisdom  is  a childless  heritage. 

One  pulse  of  passion — youth’s  first  fiery  glow, — 
Are  worth  the  hoarded  proverbs  of  the  sage  : 
Vex  not  thy  soul  with  dead  philosophy. 

Have  we  not  lips  to  kiss  with,  hearts  to  love  and 
eyes  to  see ! 

Dost  thou  not  hear  the  murmuring  nightingale. 
Like  water  bubbling  from  a silver  jar, 

So  soft  she  sings  the  envious  moon  is  pale, 

Jhat  high  in  heaven  she  is  hung  so  far 

16S 


164 


POEMS 


She  cannot  hear  that  love-enraptured  tune, — 
Mark  how  she  wreathes  each  horn  with  mist, 
yon  late  and  labouring  moon. 

White  lilies,  in  whose  cups  the  gold  bees  dream. 
The  fallen  snow  of  petals  where  the  breeze 
Scatters  the  chestnut  blossom,  or  the  gleam 
Of  boyish  limbs  in  water, — are  not  these 
Enough  for  thee,  dost  thou  desire  more  } 

Alas  ! the  Gods  will  give  nought  else  from  their 
eternal  store. 


For  our  high  Gods  have  sick  and  wearied  grown 
Of  all  our  endless  sins,  our  vain  endeavour 
For  wasted  days  of  youth  to  make  atone 

By  pain  or  prayer  or  priest,  and  never,  never, 
Hearken  they  now  to  either  good  or  ill. 

But  send  their  rain  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust 
at  will. 


They  sit  at  ease,  our  Gods  they  sit  at  ease. 
Strewing  with  leaves  of  rose  their  scented 
wine. 

They  sleep,  they  sleep,  beneath  the  rocking 
trees 

Where  asphodel  and  yellow  lotus  twine. 
Mourning  the  old  glad  days  before  they  knew 
What  evil  things  the  heart  of  man  could  dream, 
and  dreaming  do. 


PANTHEA 


165 


And  far  beneath  the  brazen  floor  they  see 
Like  swarming  flies  the  crowd  of  little  men. 
The  bustle  of  small  lives,  then  wearily 

Back  to  their  lotus-haunts  they  turn  again 
Kissing  each  others’  mouths,  and  mix  more 
deep 

The  poppy-seeded  draught  which  brings  soft 
purple-lidded  sleep. 


There  all  day  long  the  golden-vestured  sun. 
Their  torch-bearer,  stands  with  his  torch 
ablaze. 

And,  when  the  gaudy  web  of  noon  is  spun 

By  its  twelve  maidens,  through  the  crimson 
haze 

Fresh  from  Endymion’s  arms  comes  forth  the 
moon. 

And  the  immortal  Gods  in  toils  of  mortal  passions 
swoon. 


There  walks  Queen  Juno  through  some  dewy 
mead. 

Her  grand  white  feet  flecked  with  the  saffron 
dust 

Of  wind-stirred  lilies,  while  young  Ganymede 
Leaps  in  the  hot  and  amber-foaming  must, 

His  curls  all  tossed,  as  when  the  eagle  bare 
The  frightened  boy  from  Ida  through  the  blue 
Ionian  air. 


166 


POEMS 


There  in  the  green  heart  of  some  garden  close 
Queen  Venus  with  the  shepherd  at  her  side. 
Her  warm  soft  body  like  the  briar  rose 

Which  would  be  white  yet  blushes  at  its 
pride, 

Laughs  low  for  love,  till  jealous  Salmacis 
Peers  through  the  myrtle-leaves  and  sighs  for 
pain  of  lonely  bliss. 

There  never  does  that  dreary  north-wind  blow 
Which  leaves  our  English  forests  bleak  and 
bare. 

Nor  ever  falls  the  swift  white-feathered  snow. 
Nor  ever  doth  the  red-toothed  lightning  dare 
To  wake  them  in  the  silver-fretted  night 
When  we  lie  weeping  for  some  sweet  sad  sin, 
some  dead  delight. 

Alas ! they  know  the  far  Lethaean  spring, 

The  violet-hidden  waters  well  they  know. 
Where  one  whose  feet  with  tired  wandering 
Are  faint  and  broken  may  take  heart  and  go. 
And  from  those  dark  depths  cool  and  crystalline 
Drink,  and  draw  balm,  and  sleep  for  sleepless 
souls,  and  anodyne. 

But  we  oppress  our  natures,  God  or  Fate 
Is  our  enemy,  we  starve  and  feed 
On  vain  repentance — O we  are  born  too  late  I 
What  balm  for  us  in  bruisM  poppy  seed 


PANTHEA 


16) 


Who  crowd  into  one  finite  pulse  of  time 
The  joy  of  infinite  love  and  the  fierce  pain  of 
infinite  crime. 

O we  are  wearied  of  this  sense  of  guilt. 

Wearied  of  pleasure’s  paramour  despair. 
Wearied  of  every  temple  we  have  built. 

Wearied  of  every  right,  unanswered  prayer. 
For  man  is  weak ; God  sleeps : and  heaven  is 
high  : 

One  fiery-coloured  moment : one  great  love ; 
and  lo  ! we  die. 

Ah  ! but  no  ferry-man  with  labouring  pole 

Nears  his  black  shallop  to  the  flowerless 
strand, 

No  little  coin  of  bronze  can  bring  the  soul 
Over  Death’s  river  to  the  sunless  land. 

Victim  and  wine  and  vow  are  all  in  vain, 

The  tomb  is  sealed ; the  soldiers  watch ; the 
dead  rise  not  again. 

We  are  resolved  into  the  supreme  air. 

We  are  made  one  with  what  we  touch  and  see, 
With  our  heart’s  blood  each  crimson  sun  is  fair. 
With  our  young  lives  each  spring-impassioned 
tree 

Flames  into  green,  the  wildest  beasts  that  range 
The  moor  our  kinsmen  are,  all  life  is  one,  and  all 
is  change. 


1G8 


POEMS 


With  beat  of  systole  and  of  diastole 

One  grand  great  life  throbs  through  earth’s 
giant  heart, 

And  mighty  waves  of  single  Being  roll 

From  nerveless  germ  to  man,  for  we  are  part 
Of  every  rock  and  bird  and  beast  and  hill. 

One  with  the  things  that  prey  on  us,  and  one 
with  what  we  kill. 


From  lower  cells  of  waking  life  we  pass 

To  full  perfection  ; thus  the  world  grows  old  : 
We  who  are  godlike  now  were  once  a mass 
Of  quivering  purple  flecked  with  bars  of  gold, 
Unsentient  or  of  joy  or  misery. 

And  tossed  in  terrible  tangles  of  some  wild  and 
wind-swept  sea. 

This  hot  hard  flame  with  which  our  bodies  burn 
Will  make  some  meadow  blaze  with  daffodil. 
Ay ! and  those  argent  breasts  of  thine  will  turn 
To  water-lilies  ; the  brown  fields  men  till 
Will  be  more  fruitful  for  our  love  to-night. 
Nothing  is  lost  in  nature,  all  things  live  in 
Death’s  despite. 

The  boy’s  first  kiss,  the  hyacinth’s  first  bell. 

The  man’s  last  passion,  and  the  last  red  spear 
That  from  the  lily  leaps,  the  asphodel 

Which  will  not  let  its  blossoms  blow  for  fear 


PANTHEA 


169 


Of  too  much  beauty,  and  the  timid  shame 
Of  the  young  bridegroom  at  his  lover  s eyes, — 
these  with  the  same 

One  sacrament  are  consecrate,  the  earth 
Not  we  alone  hath  passions  hymeneal. 

The  yellow  buttercups  that  shake  for  mirth 
At  daybreak  know  a pleasure  not  less  real 
Than  we  do,  when  in  some  fresh-blossoming 
wood. 

We  draw  the  spring  into  our  hearts,  and  feel 
that  life  is  good. 


So  when  men  bury  us  beneath  the  yew 
Thy  crimson- stained  mouth  a rose  will  be. 

And  thy  soft  eyes  lush  bluebells  dimmed  with 
dew. 

And  when  the  white  narcissus  wantonly 
Kisses  the  wind  its  playmate  some  faint  joy 
Will  thrill  our  dust,  and  we  will  be  again  fond 
maid  and  boy. 


And  thus  without  life's  conscious  torturing  pain 
In  some  sweet  (lower  we  will  feel  the  sun. 
And  from  the  linnet’s  throat  will  sing  again. 
And  as  two  gorgeous-mailed  snakes  will  run 
Over  our  graves,  or  as  two  tigers  creep 
Through  the  hot  jungle  where  the  yellow-eyed 
huge  lions  sleep 


170 


POEMS 


And  give  them  battle  ! How  my  heart  leaps  up 
To  think  of  that  grand  living  after  death 
In  beast  and  bird  and  flower,  when  this  cup. 
Being  filled  too  full  of  spirit,  bursts  foi 
breath, 

And  with  the  pale  leaves  of  some  autumn  day 
The  soul  earth’s  earliest  conqueror  becomes 
earth’s  last  great  prey. 

O think  of  it ! We  shall  inform  ourselves 
Into  all  sensuous  life,  the  goat-foot  Faun, 

The  Centaur,  or  the  merry  bright-eyed  Elves 
That  leave  their  dancing  rings  to  spite  the 
dawn 

Upon  the  meadows,  shall  not  be  more  near 
Than  you  and  I to  nature’s  mysteries,  for  we 
shall  hear 

The  thrush’s  heart  beat,  and  the  daisies  grow. 
And  the  wan  snowdrop  sighing  for  the  sun 
On  sunless  days  in  winter,  we  shall  know 
By  whom  the  silver  gossamer  is  spun. 

Who  paints  the  diapered  fritillaries, 

On  what  wide  wings  from  shivering  pine  to  pine 
the  eagle  flies. 

Ay  ! had  we  never  loved  at  all,  who  knows 
If  yonder  daffodil  had  lured  the  bee 
Into  its  gilded  womb,  or  any  rose 

Had  hung  with  crimson  lamps  its  little  tree  I 


PANTHEA 


171 


Methinks  no  leaf  would  ever  bud  in  spring. 

But  for  the  lovers’  lips  that  kiss,  the  poets’  lips 
that  sing. 

Is  the  light  vanished  from  our  golden  sun. 

Or  is  this  daedal-fashioned  earth  less  fair. 

That  we  are  nature’s  heritors,  and  one 

With  every  pulse  of  life  that  beats  the  air? 
Rather  new  suns  across  the  sky  shall  pass. 

New  splendour  come  unto  the  flower,  new  gloiy 
to  the  grass. 

And  we  two  lovers  shall  not  sit  afar. 

Critics  of  nature,  but  the  joyous  sea 
Shall  be  our  raiment,  and  the  bearded  star 
Shoot  arrows  at  our  pleasure  ! We  shall  be 
Part  of  the  mighty  universal  whole. 

And  through  all  aeons  mix  and  mingle  with  the 
Kosmic  Soul ! 


We  shall  be  notes  in  that  great  Symphony 

Whose  cadence  circles  through  the  rhythmic 
spheres. 

And  all  the  live  World’s  throbbing  heart  shall 
be 

One  with  our  heart ; the  stealthy  creeping 
years 

Have  lost  their  terrors  now,  we  shall  not  die, 

The  Universe  itself  shall  be  our  Immortality, 


THE  FOURTH  MOVEMENT 


II\!PRESSION 

LE  REVEILLON 

The  sky  is  laced  with  fitful  red. 

The  circling  mists  and  shadows  flee, 
The  dawn  is  rising  from  the  sea, 

Like  a white  lady  from  her  bed. 

And  jagged  brazen  arrows  fall 
Athwart  the  feathers  of  the  night, 

And  a long  wave  of  yellow  light 
Breaks  silently  on  tower  and  hall. 

And  spreading  wide  across  the  wold 
Wakes  into  flight  some  fluttering  bird. 

And  all  the  chestnut  tops  are  stirred, 

And  all  the  branches  streaked  with  gold. 


1T5 


176 


POEMS 


AT  VERONA 

HOW  steep  the  stairs  within  Kings’  houses 
are 

For  exile-wearied  feet  as  mine  to  tread. 

And  O how  salt  and  bitter  is  the  bread 
Which  falls  from  this  Hound’s  table, — better  far 
That  I had  died  in  the  red  ways  of  war. 

Or  that  the  gate  of  Florence  bare  my  head. 
Than  to  live  thus,  by  all  things  comraded 
Which  seek  the  essence  of  my  soul  to  mar. 

' Curse  God  and  die : what  better  hope  than 
this  ? 

He  hath  forgotten  thee  in  all  the  bliss 
Of  his  gold  city,  and  eternal  day  ’ — 

Nay  peace  : behind  my  prison’s  blinded  bars 
I do  possess  what  none  can  take  away 
My  love,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  stars. 


THE  FOURTH  MOVEMENT 


177 


APOLOGIA 

IS  it  thy  will  that  I should  wax  and  wane. 
Barter  my  cloth  of  gold  for  hodden  grey. 
And  at  thy  pleasure  weave  that  web  of  pain 
Whose  brightest  threads  are  each  a wasted 
day  ? 


Is  it  thy  will — Love  that  I love  so  well — 

That  my  Soul’s  House  should  be  a tortured 
spot 

Wherein,  like  evil  paramours,  must  dwell 

The  quenchless  flame,  the  worm  that  dieth 
not? 


Nay,  if  it  be  thy  will  I shall  endure. 

And  sell  ambition  at  the  common  mart. 
And  let  dull  failure  be  my  vestiture, 

And  sorrow  dig  its  grave  within  my  heart. 


Perchance  it  may  be  better  so — at  least 

I have  not  made  my  heart  a heart  of  stone. 
Nor  starved  my  boyhood  of  its  goodly  feast. 

Nor  walked  where  Beauty  is  a thing  unknown. 


178 


POEMS 


Many  a man  hath  done  so ; sought  to  fence 
In  straitened  bonds  the  soul  that  should  be 
free. 

Trodden  the  dusty  road  of  common  sense. 

While  all  the  forest  sang  of  liberty. 

Not  marking  how  the  spotted  hawk  in  flight 
Passed  on  wide  pinion  through  the  lofty  air. 
To  where  some  steep  untrodden  mountain  height 
Caught  the  last  tresses  of  the  Sun  God’s  hair. 

Or  Aow  the  little  flower  he  trod  upon. 

The  daisy,  that  white-feathered  shield  of  gold. 
Followed  with  wistful  eyes  the  wandering  sun 
Content  if  once  its  leaves  were  aureoled. 

But  surely  it  is  something  to  have  been 
The  best  beloved  for  a little  while. 

To  have  walked  haind  in  hand  with  Love,  and 
seen 

His  purple  wings  flit  once  across  thy  smile. 

Ay  ! though  the  gorged  asp  of  passion  feed 
On  my  boy’s  heart,  yet  have  I burst  the  bars. 
Stood  face  to  face  with  Beauty,  known  indeed 
The  Love  which  moves  the  Sun  and  all  the 
stars ! 


THE  FOURTH  MOVEMENT 


179 


QUIA  MULTUM  AMAVI 

Dear  Heart,  I think  the  young  impassioned 
priest 

When  first  he  takes  from  out  the  hidden 
shrine 

His  God  imprisoned  in  the  Eucharist, 

And  eats  the  bread,  and  drinks  the  dreadful 
wine. 

Feels  not  such  awful  wonder  as  I felt 

When  first  my  smitten  eyes  beat  full  on  thee. 
And  all  night  long  before  thy  feet  I knelt 
Till  thou  wert  wearied  of  Idolatry. 

Ah ! hadst  thou  liked  me  less  and  loved  me 
more, 

Through  all  those  summer  days  of  joy  and 
rain, 

I had  not  now  been  sorrow’s  heritor. 

Or  stood  a lackey  in  the  House  of  Pain. 

Yet,  though  remorse,  youth’s  white-faced  sene- 
schal, 

Tread  on  my  heels  with  all  his  retinue, 

1 am  most  glad  I loved  thee — think  of  all 

The  suns  that  go  to  make  one  speedwell  blue  I 


180 


POEMS 


SILENTIUM  AMORIS 

AS  often-times  the  too  resplendent  sun 
J~\.  Hurries  the  pallid  and  reluctant  moon 
Back  to  her  sombre  cave,  ere  she  hath  won 
A single  ballad  from  the  nightingale, 

So  doth  thy  Beauty  make  my  lips  to  fail. 
And  all  my  sweetest  singing  out  of  tune. 

And  as  at  dawn  across  the  level  mead 

On  wings  impetuous  some  wind  will  come. 
And  with  its  too  harsh  kisses  break  the  reed 
Which  was  its  only  instrument  of  song, 

So  my  too  stormy  passions  work  me  wrong, 
And  for  excess  of  Love  my  Love  is  dumb. 

But  surely  unto  Thee  mine  eyes  did  show 
Why  I am  silent,  and  my  lute  unstrung ; 
Else  it  were  better  we  should  part,  and  go. 
Thou  to  some  lips  of  sweeter  melody. 

And  I to  nurse  the  barren  memory 
Of  unkissed  kisses,  and  songs  never  sung. 


THE  FOURTH  MOVEMENT 


181 


HER  VOICE 

The  wild  bee  reels  from  bough  to  bough 
With  his  furry  coat  and  his  gauzy  wing, 
Now  in  a lily-cup,  and  now 
Setting  a jacinth  bell  a-swing. 

In  his  wandering  ; 

Sit  closer  love  ; it  was  here  I trow 
I made  that  vow. 

Swore  that  two  lives  should  be  like  one 
As  long  as  the  sea-gull  loved  the  sea. 

As  long  as  the  sunflower  sought  the  sun,— 

It  shall  be,  I said,  for  eternity 
’Twixt  you  and  me  I 

Dear  friend,  those  times  are  over  and  done; 
Love’s  web  is  spun. 

Look  upward  where  the  poplar  trees 
Sway  and  sway  in  the  summer  air. 

Here  in  the  valley  never  a breeze 
Scatters  the  thistledown,  but  there 
Great  winds  blow  fair 
From  the  mighty  murmuring  mystical  seas^ 
And  the  wave-lashed  leas. 


182 


POEMS 


Look  upward  where  the  white  gull  screams. 
What  does  it  see  that  we  do  not  see  ? 

Is  that  a star?  or  the  lamp  that  gleams 
On  some  outward  voyaging  argosy, — 

Ah  I can  it  be 

We  have  lived  our  lives  in  a land  of  dreams 
How  sad  it  seems. 

Sweet,  there  is  nothing  left  to  say 
But  this,  that  love  is  never  lost. 

Keen  winter  stabs  the  breasts  of  May 
Whose  crimson  roses  burst  his  frost. 

Ships  tempest-tossed 
Will  find  a harbour  in  some  bay. 

And  so  we  may. 

And  there  is  nothing  left  to  do 
But  to  kiss  once  again,  and  part. 

Nay,  there  is  nothing  we  should  rue, 

I have  my  beauty, — you  your  Art, 

Nay,  do  not  start. 

One  world  was  not  enough  for  two 
Like  me  and  you. 


THE  FOURTH  MOVEMENT 


188 


MY  VOICE 

WITHIN  this  restless,  hurried,  modern 
world 

We  took  our  hearts’  full  pleasure — You  and  I, 
And  now  the  white  sails  of  our  ship  are  furled, 
And  spent  the  lading  of  our  argosy. 

Wherefore  my  cheeks  before  their  time  are  wan^ 
For  very  weeping  is  my  gladness  fled. 

Sorrow  has  paled  my  young  mouth’s  vermilion. 
And  Ruin  draws  the  curtains  of  my  bed. 

But  all  this  crowded  life  has  been  to  thee 
No  more  than  lyre,  or  lute,  or  subtle  spell 
Of  viols,  or  the  music  of  the  sea 

That  sleeps,  a mimic  echo,  in  the  shell. 


184 


POEMS 


TEDIUM  \ITM 

TO  stab  my  youth  with  desperate  knives,  to 
wear 

This  paltry  age’s  gaudy  livery, 

To  let  each  base  hand  filch  my  treasury. 

To  mesh  my  soul  within  a woman’s  hair. 

And  be  mere  Fortune’s  lackeyed  groom, — I 
swear 

I love  it  not ! these  things  are  less  to  me 
Than  the  thin  foam  that  frets  upon  the  sea. 

Less  than  the  thistledown  of  summer  air 
Which  hath  no  seed  : better  to  stand  aloof 
Far  from  these  slanderous  fools  who  mock  my 
life 

Knowing  me  not,  better  the  lowliest  roof 
Fit  for  the  meanest  hind  to  sojourn  in. 

Than  to  go  back  to  that  hoarse  cave  of  strife 
Where  my  white  soul  first  kissed  the  mouth  of 
sin. 


HUMANITAD 


HUMANITAD 

IT  is  full  winter  now ; the  trees  are  bare. 

Save  where  the  cattle  huddle  from  the  cold 
Beneath  the  pine,  for  it  doth  never  wear 
The  Autumn's  gaudy  livery  whose  gold 
Her  jealous  brother  pilfers,  but  is  true 
To  the  green  doublet ; bitter  is  the  wind,  as 
though  it  blew 

From  Saturn's  cave ; a few  thin  wisps  of  hay 
Lie  on  the  sharp  black  hedges,  where  the  wain 
Dragged  the  sweet  pillage  of  a summer’s  day 
From  the  low  meadows  up  the  narrow  lane ; 
Upon  the  half-thawed  snow  the  bleating  sheep 
Press  close  against  the  hurdles,  and  the  shiver- 
ing house-dogs  creep 

From  the  shut  stable  to  the  frozen  stream 
And  back  again  disconsolate,  and  miss 
The  bawling  shepherds  and  the  noisy  team ; 

And  overhead  in  circling  listlessness 
The  cawing  rooks  whirl  round  the  frosted  stack. 
Or  crowd  the  dripping  boughs ; and  in  the  fen 
the  ice-pools  crack 


187 


188 


POEMS 


Where  the  gaunt  bittern  stalks  among  the  reeds 
And  flaps  his  wings,  and  stretches  back  his 
neck. 

And  hoots  to  see  the  moon  ; across  the  meads 
Limps  the  poor  frightened  hare,  a little  speck  ; 
And  a stray  seamew  with  its  fretful  cry 
Flits  like  a sudden  drift  of  snow  against  the  dull 
grey  sky. 

Full  winter:  and  the  lusty  goodman  brings 
His  load  of  faggots  from  the  chilly  byre. 

And  stamps  his  feet  upon  the  hearth,  and  flings 
The  sappy  billets  on  the  waning  fire. 

And  laughs  to  see  the  sudden  lightening  scare 
His  children  at  their  play ; and  yet, — the  Spring 
is  in  the  air. 


Already  the  slim  crocus  stirs  the  snow. 

And  soon  yon  blanched  fields  will  bloom 
again 

With  nodding  cowslips  for  some  lad  to  mow. 

For  with  the  first  warm  kisses  of  the  rain 
The  winter’s  icy  sorrow  breaks  to  tears. 

And  the  brown  thrushes  mate,  and  with  bright 
eyes  the  rabbit  peers 

From  the  dark  warren  where  the  fir-cones  lie, 
And  treads  one  snowdrop  under  foot,  and 
runs 


HUMANITAD 


189 


Over  the  mossy  knoll,  and  blackbirds  fly 
Across  our  path  at  evening,  and  the  suns 
Stay  longer  with  us  ; ah  ! how  good  to  see 
Grass-girdled  Spring  in  all  her  joy  of  laughing 
greenery 

Dance  through  the  hedges  till  the  early  rose, 
(That  sweet  repentance  of  the  thorny  briar  !) 
Burst  from  its  sheathed  emerald  and  disclose 
The  little  quivering  disk  of  golden  fire 
Which  the  bees  know  so  well,  for  with  it 
come 

Pale  boy’s-love,  sops-in-wine,  and  daff’adillies  all 
in  bloom. 


Then  up  and  down  the  field  the  sower  goes. 
While  close  behind  the  laughing  younker 
scares 

With  shrilly  whoop  the  black  and  thievish 
crows. 

And  then  the  chestnut-tree  its  glory  wears. 
And  on  the  grass  the  creamy  blossom  falls 
In  odorous  excess,  and  faint  half-whispered 
madrigals 


Steal  from  the  bluebells’  nodding  carillons 
Each  breezy  morn,  and  then  white  jessamine, 
That  star  of  its  own  heaven,  snap-dragons 
With  lolling  crimson  tongues,  and  eglantine 


190 


POEMS 


In  dusty  velvets  clad  usurp  the  bed 
And  woodland  empery,  and  when  the  lingering 
rose  hath  shed 

Red  leaf  by  leaf  its  folded  panoply. 

And  pansies  closed  their  purple  lidded  eyes. 
Chrysanthemums  from  gilded  argosy 

Unload  their  gaudy  scentless  merchandise, 
And  violets  getting  overbold  withdraw 
From  their  shy  nooks,  and  scarlet  berries  dot 
the  leafless  haw. 

O happy  field  ! and  O thrice  happy  tree  ! 

Soon  will  your  Queen  in  daisy-flowered 
smock 

And  crown  of  flower-de-luce  trip  down  the 
lea. 

Soon  will  the  lazy  shepherds  drive  their  flock 
Back  to  the  pasture  by  the  pool,  and  soon 
Through  the  green  leaves  will  float  the  hum  of 
murmuring  bees  at  noon. 

Soon  will  the  glade  be  bright  with  bellamour, 
The  flower  which  wantons  love,  and  those 
sweet  nuns 

Vale-lilies  in  their  snowy  vestiture 

Will  tell  their  beaded  pearls,  and  carnations 
With  mitred  dusky  leaves  will  scent  the  wind. 
And  straggling  traveller’s-joy  each  hedge  with 
yellow  stars  will  bind. 


HUMANITAD 


191 


Dear  Bride  of  Nature  and  most  bounteous 
Spring ! 

That  canst  give  increase  to  the  sweet-breath'd 
kine. 

And  to  the  kid  its  little  horns,  and  bring 
The  soft  and  silky  blossoms  to  the  vine, 

Where  is  that  old  nepenthe  which  of  yore 
Man  got  from  poppy  root  and  glossy-berried 
mandragore ! 

There  was  a time  when  any  common  bird 
Could  make  me  sing  in  unison,  a time 
When  all  the  strings  of  boyish  life  were  stirred 
To  quick  response  or  more  melodious  rhyme 
By  every  forest  idyll ; — do  I change  ? 

Or  rather  doth  some  evil  thing  through  thy  fair 
pleasaunce  range  ? 

Nay,  nay,  thou  art  the  same : 'tis  I who  seek 
To  vex  with  sighs  thy  simple  solitude. 

And  because  fruitless  tears  bedew  my  cheek 
Would  have  thee  weep  with  me  in  brother- 
hood ; 

Fool ! shall  each  wronged  and  restless  spirit  dare 
To  taint  such  wine  with  the  salt  poison  of  his 
own  despair ! 

Thou  art  the  same  : 'tis  I whose  wretched  soul 
Takes  discontent  to  be  its  paramour. 

And  gives  its  kingdom  to  the  rude  control 


192 


POEMS 


Of  what  should  be  its  servitor, — for  sure 
Wisdom  is  somewhere,  though  the  stormy  sea 
Contain  it  not,  and  the  huge  deep  answer  is 
not  in  me/ 

To  burn  with  one  clear  flame,  to  stand  erect 
In  natural  honour,  not  to  bend  the  knee 
In  profitless  prostrations  whose  effect 
Is  by  itself  condemned,  what  alchemy 
Can  teach  me  this  ? what  herb  Medea  brewed 
Will  bring  the  unexultant  peace  of  essence  not 
subdued  ? 

The  minor  chord  which  ends  the  harmony. 

And  for  its  answering  brother  waits  in  vain 
Sobbing  for  incompleted  melody. 

Dies  a Swan’s  death ; but  I the  heir  of  pain, 

A silent  Memnon  with  blank  lidless  eyes. 

Wait  for  the  light  and  music  of  those  suns  which 
never  rise. 


The  quenched-out  torch,  the  lonely  cypress- 
gloom. 

The  little  dust  stored  in  the  narrow  urn. 

The  gentle  XAIPE  of  the  Attic  tomb, — 

Were  not  these  better  far  than  to  return 
To  my  old  fitful  restless  malady. 

Or  spend  my  days  within  the  voiceless  cave  of 
misery  ? 


HUMANITAD 


193 


Nay  ! for  perchance  that  poppy-crowned  God 
Is  like  the  watcher  by  a sick  man's  bed 
Who  talks  of  sleep  but  gives  it  not ; his  rod 
Hath  lost  its  virtue,  and,  when  all  is  said. 
Death  is  too  rude,  too  obvious  a key 
To  solve  one  single  secret  in  a life’s  philosophy. 

And  Love  ! that  noble  madness,  whose  august 
And  inextinguishable  might  can  slay 
The  soul  with  honeyed  drugs, — alas  I 1 must 
From  such  sweet  ruin  play  the  runaway. 
Although  too  constant  memory  never  can 
Forget  the  arched  splendour  of  those  brows 
Olympian 

Which  for  a little  season  made  my  youth 
So  soft  a swoon  of  exquisite  indolence 
That  all  the  chiding  of  more  prudent  Truth 
Seemed  the  thin  voice  of  jealousy, — O Hence 
Thou  huntress  deadlier  than  Artemis ! 

Go  seek  some  other  quarry ! for  of  thy  too 
perilous  bliss 


My  lips  have  drunk  enough, — no  more,  no 
more, — 

Though  Love  himself  should  turn  his  gilded 
prow 

Back  to  the  troubled  waters  of  this  shore 

Wliere  1 am  wrecked  and  stranded,  even  now 


194 


POEMS 


The  chariot  wheels  of  passion  sweep  too  neai, 
Hence  ! Hence  ! I pass  unto  a life  more  barren, 
more  austere. 

More  barren — ay,  those  arms  will  never  lean 
Down  through  the  trellised  vines  and  draw 
my  soul 

In  sweet  reluctance  through  the  tangled  green ; 

Some  other  head  must  wear  that  aureole. 

For  I am  Hers  who  loves  not  any  man 
Whose  white  and  stainless  bosom  bears  the  sign 
Gorgonian. 


Let  Venus  go  and  chuck  her  dainty  page. 

And  kiss  his  mouth,  and  toss  his  curly  hair. 
With  net  and  spear  and  hunting  equipage 
Let  young  Adonis  to  his  tryst  repair. 

But  me  her  fond  and  subtle-fashioned  spell 
Delights  no  more,  though  1 could  win  her 
dearest  citadel. 


Ay,  though  I were  that  laughing  shepherd  boy 
Who  from  Mount  Ida  saw  the  little  cloud 
Pass  over  Tenedos  and  lofty  Troy 

And  knew  the  coming  of  the  Queen,  and 
bowed 

In  wonder  at  her  feet,  not  for  the  sake 
Of  a new  Helen  would  I bid  her  hand  the  apple 
take. 


HUMANITAD 


m 


Then  rise  supreme  Athena  argent-limbed  ! 

And,  if  my  lips  be  music-less,  inspire 
At  least  my  life  was  not  thy  glory  hymned 
By  One  who  gave  to  thee  his  sword  and  lyre 
Like  iTlschylos  at  well-fought  Marathon, 

And  died  to  show  that  Milton’s  England  still 
could  bear  a son  ! 

And  yet  I cannot  tread  the  Portico 

And  live  without  desire,  fear  and  pain, 

Or  nurture  that  wise  calm  which  long  ago 
The  grave  Athenian  master  taught  to  men, 
Self-poised,  self-centred,  and  self-comforted, 

To  watch  the  world’s  vain  phantasies  go  by  with 
un-bowed  head. 


Alas ! that  serene  brow,  those  eloquent  lips, 
Those  eyes  tiiat  mirrored  all  eternity. 

Rest  in  their  own  Colonos,  an  eclipse 
Hath  come  on  Wisdom,  and  Mnemosyne 
Is  childless ; in  the  night  which  she  had  made 
For  lofty  secure  flight  Athena’s  owl  itself  hath 
strayed. 


Nor  much  with  Science  do  I care  to  climb. 
Although  by  strange  and  subtle  witchery 
She  draw  the  moon  from  heaven:  the  Muse 
Time 

Unrolls  her  gorgeous-coloured  tapestry 


19(5 


POEMS 


To  no  Jess  eager  eyes ; often  indeed 
In  the  great  epic  of  Polymnia’s  scroll  1 love  to 
read 


How  Asia  sent  her  myriad  hosts  to  war 
Against  a little  town,  and  panoplied 
In  gilded  mail  with  jewelled  scimitar. 

White-shielded,  purple-crested,  rode  the  Mede 
Between  the  waving  poplars  and  the  sea 
Which  men  call  Artemisium,  till  he  saw  Ther- 
mopylae 


Its  steep  ravine  spanned  by  a narrow  wall, 

And  on  the  nearer  side  a little  brood 
Of  careless  lions  holding  festival  I 

And  stood  amazed  at  such  hardihood. 

And  pitched  his  tent  upon  the  reedy  shore, 

And  stayed  two  days  to  wonder,  and  then  crept 
at  midnight  o’er 


Some  unfrequented  height,  and  coming  down 
The  autumn  forests  treacherously  slew 
What  Sparta  held  most  dear  and  was  the 
crown 

Of  far  Eurotas,  and  passed  on,  nor  knew 
How  God  had  staked  an  evil  net  for  him 
In  the  small  bay  at  Salamis, — and  yet,  the  page 
grows  dim, 


JIUMANITAD 


19? 


its  cadenced  Greek  delights  me  not,  I feel 
With  such  a goodly  time  too  out  of  tune 
To  love  it  much  : for  like  the  Dial’s  wheel 

That  from  its  blinded  darkness  strikes  the 
noon 

Yet  never  sees  the  sun,  so  do  my  eyes 
Restlessly  follow  that  which  from  my  cheated 
vision  flies. 


O for  one  grand  unselfish  simple  life 

To  teach  us  what  is  Wisdom ! speak  ye 
hills 

Of  lone  Helvellyn,  for  this  note  of  strife 

Shunned  your  untroubled  crags  and  crystal 
rills, 

Where  is  that  Spirit  which  living  blamelessly 

Yet  dared  to  kiss  the  smitten  mouth  of  his  own 
century ! 


Speak  ye  Rydalian  laurels  ! where  is  He 

Whose  gentle  head  ye  sheltered,  that  pure 
soul 

Whose  gracious  days  of  uncrowned  majesty 
Through  lowliest  conduct  touched  the  lofty 
goal 

Where  Love  and  Duty  mingle  ! Him  at  least 

The  most  high  Laws  were  glad  of,  He  had  sat 
at  Wisdom’s  feast, 


198 


POEMS 


But  we  are  Learning's  changelings,  know  by  rote 
The  clarion  watchword  of  each  Grecian  school ' 
And  follow  none,  the  flawless  sword  which 
smote 

The  pagan  Hydra  is  an  effete  tool 
Which  we  ourselves  have  blunted,  what  man 
now 

Shall  scale  the  august  ancient  heights  and  to 
old  Reverence  bow  ? 

One  such  indeed  I saw,  but,  Ichabod ! 

Gone  is  that  last  dear  son  of  Italy, 

Who  being  man  died  for  the  sake  of  God, 

And  whose  un-risen  bones  sleep  peacefully, 

O guard  him,  guard  him  well,  my  Giotto’s 
tower. 

Thou  marble  lily  of  the  lily  town ! let  not  the 
lour 

Of  the  rude  tempest  vex  his  slumber,  or 
The  Arno  with  its  tawny  troubled  gold 
O’er-leap  its  marge,  no  mightier  conqueror 
Clomb  the  high  Capitol  in  the  days  of  old 
When  Rome  was  indeed  Rome,  for  Liberty 
Walked  like  a Bride  beside  him,  at  which  sight 
pale  Mystery 

Fled  shrieking  to  her  farthest  sombrest  cell 
With  an  old  man  who  grabbled  rusty  keys. 

Fled  shuddering,  for  that  immemorial  knell 


HUMANITAD 


199 


With  which  oblivion  buries  dynasties 
Swept  like  a wounded  eagle  on  the  blast, 

As  to  the  holy  heart  of  Rome  the  great  triumvir 
passed. 

He  knew  the  holiest  heart  and  heights  of  Rome, 
He  drave  the  base  wolf  from  the  lion’s  lair, 
And  now  lies  dead  by  that  empyreal  dome 
Which  overtops  Valdariio  hung  in  air 
By  Brunelleschi — O Melpomene 
Breathe  through  thy  melancholy  pipe  thy 
sweetest  threnody  ! 

Breathe  through  the  tragic  stops  such  melodies 
That  Joy’s  self  may  grow  jealous,  and  the  Nine 
Forget  awhile  their  discreet  emperies. 

Mourning  for  him  who  on  Rome’s  lordliest 
shrine 

Lit  for  men’s  lives  the  light  of  Marathon, 

And  bare  to  sun-forgotten  fields  the  fire  of  the 
sun ! 

O guard  him,  guard  him  well,  my  Giotto’s 
tower. 

Let  some  young  Florentine  each  eventide 
Bring  coronals  of  that  enchanted  flower 
Which  the  dim  woods  of  Vallombrosa  hide, 
And  deck  the  marble  tomb  wherein  he  lies 
Whose  soul  is  as  some  mighty  orb  unseen  of 
mortal  eyes. 


200 


POEMS 


Some  mighty  orb  whose  cycled  wanderings, 
Being  tempest-driven  to  the  farthest  rim 
Where  Chaos  meets  Creation  and  the  wings 
Of  the  eternal  chanting  Cherubim 
Are  pavilioned  on  Nothing,  passed  away 
Into  a moonless  void, — and  yet,  though  he  is 
dust  and  clay, 


He  is  not  dead,  the  immemorial  Fates 
Forbid  it,  and  the  closing  shears  refrain. 

Lift  up  your  heads  ye  everlasting  gates ! 

Ye  argent  clarions,  sound  a loftier  strain! 

For  the  vile  thing  he  hated  lurks  within 
Its  sombre  house,  alone  with  God  and  memories 
of  sin. 


Still  what  avails  it  that  she  sought  her  cave 
That  murderous  mother  of  red  harlotries  ? 

At  Munich  on  the  marble  architrave 

The  Grecian  boys  die  smiling,  but  the  seas 
Which  wash  iLgina  fret  in  loneliness 
Not  mirroring  their  beauty,  so  our  lives  grow 
colourless 


For  lack  of  our  ideals,  if  one  star 

Flame  torch-like  in  the  heavens  the  unjust 
Swift  daylight  kills  it,  and  no  trump  of  war 
Can  wake  to  passionate  voice  the  silent  dust 


HUMANITAD 


201 


Which  was  Mazzini  once  ! rich  Niobe 
For  all  her  stony  sorrows  hath  her  sons,  but 
Italy ! 

What  Easter  Day  shall  make  her  children  rise. 
Who  were  not  Gods  yet  suffered  ? what  sure 
feet 

Shall  find  their  grave-clothes  folded  ? what  clear 
eyes 

Shall  see  them  bodily  ? O it  were  meet 
To  roll  the  stone  from  off  the  sepulchre 
And  kiss  the  bleeding  roses  of  their  wounds,  in 
love  of  Her 

Our  Italy  ! our  mother  visible  ! 

Most  blessed  among  nations  and  most  sad. 

For  whose  dear  sake  the  young  Calabrian  fell 
That  day  at  Aspromonte  and  was  glad 
That  in  an  age  when  God  was  bought  and  sold 
One  man  could  die  for  Liberty ! but  we,  burnt 
out  and  cold. 

See  Honour  smitten  on  the  cheek  and  gyves 
Bind  the  sweet  feet  of  Mercy:  Poverty 
Creeps  through  our  sunless  lanes  and  with  sharp 
knives 

Cuts  the  warm  throats  of  children  stealthily, 
And  no  word  said  : — O we  are  wretched  men 
Unworthy  of  our  great  inheritance  I where  ii 
the  pen 


202 


POEMS 


Of  austere  Milton  ? where  the  mighty  sword 
Which  .slew  its  master  righteously  ? the 
years 

Have  lost  their  ancient  leader,  and  no  word 
Breaks  from  the  voiceless  tripod  on  our 
ears  : 

While  as  a ruined  mother  in  some  spasm 
Bears  a base  child  and  loathes  it,  so  our  best 
enthusiasm 

Genders  unlawful  children,  Anarchy 
Freedom’s  own  Judas,  the  vile  prodigal 
Licence  who  steals  the  gold  of  Liberty 
And  yet  has  nothing.  Ignorance  the  real 
One  Fratricide  since  Cain,  Envy  the  asp 
That  stings  itself  to  anguish.  Avarice  whose 
palsied  grasp 

Is  in  its  extent  stiffened,  moneyed  Greed 
For  whose  dull  appetite  men  waste  away 
Amid  the  whirr  of  wheels  and  are  the  seed 
Of  things  which  slay  their  sower,  these  each 
day 

Sees  rife  in  England,  and  the  gentle  feet 
Of  Beauty  tread  no  more  the  stones  of  each 
unlovely  street. 

What  even  Cromwell  spared  is  desecrated 
By  weed  and  worm,  left  to  the  stormy  play 
Of  wind  and  beating  snow,  or  renovated 


HUMANITAD 


203 


By  more  destructful  hands : Time’s  worst 
decay 

Will  wreathe  its  ruins  with  some  loveliness. 

But  these  new  Vandals  can  but  make  a rain- 
proof barrenness. 

Where  is  that  Art  which  bade  the  Angels  sing 
Through  Lincoln’s  lofty  choir,  till  the  air 
Seems  from  such  marble  harmonies  to  ring 

With  sweeter  song  than  common  lips  can  dare 
To  draw  from  actual  reed  ah  ! where  is  now 
The  cunning  hand  which  made  the  flowering 
hawthorn  branches  bow 

For  Southwell’s  arch,  and  carved  the  House  of 
One 

Who  loved  the  lilies  of  the  field  with  all 
Our  dearest  English  flowers  } the  same  sun 
Rises  for  us  : the  seasons  natural 
Weave  the  same  tapestry  of  green  and  grey  : 

The  unchanged  hills  are  with  us  : but  that  Spirit 
hath  passed  away. 

And  yet  perchance  it  may  be  better  so. 

For  Tyranny  is  an  incestuous  Queen, 

Murder  her  brother  is  her  bedfellow. 

And  the  Plague  chambers  with  her : in 
obscene 

And  bloody  paths  her  treacherous  feet  are  set ; 
Better  the  empty  desert  and  a soul  inviolate ! 


204 


POEMS 


For  gentle  brotherhood^  the  harmony 
Of  living  in  the  healthful  air,  the  swift 
Clean  beauty  of  strong  limbs  when  men  are  free 
And  women  chaste,  these  are  the  things 
which  lift 

Our  souls  up  more  than  even  Agnolo’s 
Gaunt  blinded  Sibyl  poring  o’er  the  scroll  of 
human  woes. 

Or  Titian’s  little  maiden  on  the  stair 
White  as  her  own  sweet  lily  and  as  tall, 

Or  Mona  Lisa  smiling  through  her  hair, — 

Ah  ! somehow  life  is  bigger  after  all 
Than  any  painted  Angel,  could  we  see 
The  God  that  is  within  us ! The  old  Greek 
serenity 

Which  curbs  the  passion  of  that  level  line 
Of  marble  youths,  who  with  untroubled  eyes 
And  chastened  limbs  ride  round  Athena’s  shrine 
And  mirror  her  divine  economies. 

And  balanced  symmetry  of  what  in  man 
Would  else  wage  ceaseless  warfare, — this  at 
least  within  the  span 

Between  our  mother’s  kisses  and  the  grave 
Might  so  inform  our  lives,  that  we  could  win 
Such  mighty  empires  that  from  her  cave 

Temptation  would  grow  hoarse,  and  pallid  Sin 


HUMANITAD 


205 


Would  walk  ashamed  of  his  adulteries. 

And  Passion  creep  from  out  the  House  of  Lust 
with  startled  eyes. 

To  make  the  Body  and  the  Spirit  one 

With  all  right  things,  till  no  thing  live  in 
vain 

From  morn  to  noon,  but  in  sweet  unison 

With  every  pulse  of  flesh  and  throb  of  brain 
The  Soul  in  flawless  essence  high  enthroned. 
Against  all  outer  vain  attack  invincibly  bas- 
tioned, 

Mark  with  serene  impartiality 

The  strife  of  things,  and  yet  be  comforted. 
Knowing  that  by  the  chain  causality 
All  separate  existences  are  wed 
Into  one  supreme  whole,  whose  utterance 
Is  joy,  or  holier  praise ! ah  ! surely  this  were 
governance 

Of  Life  in  most  august  omnipresence. 

Through  which  the  rational  intellect  would 
And 

In  passion  its  expression,  and  mere  sense. 
Ignoble  else,  lend  fire  to  the  mind, 

And  being  joined  with  it  in  harmony 
More  mystical  than  that  which  binds  the  stars 
planetary. 


206 


POEMS 


Strike  from  their  several  tones  one  octave  chord 
Whose  cadence  being  measureless  would  fly 
Through  all  the  circling  spheres,  then  to  its 
Lord 

Return  refreshed  with  its  new  erapery 
And  more  exultant  power, — this  indeed 
Could  we  but  reach  it  were  to  find  the  last,  the 
perfect  creed. 

Ah ! it  was  easy  when  the  world  was  youne* 

To  keep  one’s  life  free  and  inviolate, 

From  our  sad  lips  another  song  is  rung. 

By  our  own  hands  our  heads  are  desecrate, 
Wanderers  in  drear  exile,  and  dispossessed 
Of  what  should  be  our  own,  we  can  but  feed  on 
wild  unrest. 


Somehow  the  grace,  the  bloom  of  things  has 
flown. 

And  of  all  men  we  are  most  wretched  who 
Must  live  each  other’s  lives  and  not  our  own 
For  very  pity’s  sake  and  then  undo 
All  that  ■we  lived  for — it  was  otherwise 
When  soul  and  body  seemed  to  blend  in  mystic 
symphonies. 

But  we  have  left  those  gentle  haunts  to  pass 
With  weary  feet  to  the  new  Calvary; 

Where  we  behold,  as  one  who  in  a glass 


HUMANITAD 


207 


Sees  his  own  face,  self-slain  Humanity, 

And  in  the  dumb  reproach  of  that  sad  gaze 
Learn  what  an  awful  phantom  the  red  hand  of 
man  can  raise. 


O smitten  mouth  I O forehead  crowned  with 
thorn ! 

O clialice  of  all  common  miseries  ! 

Thou  for  our  sakes  that  loved  thee  not  hast 
borne 

An  agony  of  endless  centuries. 

And  we  were  vain  and  ignorant  nor  knew 
That  when  we  stabbed  thy  heart  it  was  our  own 
real  hearts  we  slew. 


Being  ourselves  the  sowers  and  the  seeds. 

The  night  that  covers  and  the  lights  that 
fade. 

The  spear  that  pierces  and  the  side  that  bleeds. 
The  lips  betraying  and  the  life  betrayed ; 

The  deep  hath  calm:  the  moon  bath  rest:  but 
we 

Lords  of  the  natural  world  are  yet  our  own 
dread  enemy. 


Is  this  the  end  of  all  that  primal  force 

Which,  in  its  changes  being  still  the  same. 
From  eyeless  Chaos  cleft  its  upward  course. 


208 


POEMS 


Through  ravenous  seas  and  whirling  rocks 
and  flame. 

Till  the  suns  met  in  heaven  and  began 

Their  cycles,  and  the  morning  stars  sang,  and 
the  Word  was  Man  I 

Nay,  nay,  we  are  but  crucified,  and  though 
The  bloody  sweat  falls  from  our  brows  like 
rain. 

Loosen  the  nails — we  shall  come  down  I know. 
Staunch  the  red  wounds — we  shall  be  whole 
again. 

No  need  have  we  of  hyssop-laden  rod. 

That  which  is  purely  human,  that  is  Godlike, 
that  is  God. 


FLOWER  OF  LOVE 


Ji 


rATKTniKPos  Evnt 


SWEET,  I blame  you  not,  for  mine  the  fault 
was,  had  I not  been  made  of  common 
clay 

I had  climbed  the  higher  heights  unclimbed 
yet,  seen  the  fuller  air,  the  larger  day. 

From  the  wildness  of  my  wasted  passion  I had 
struck  a better,  clearer  song. 

Lit  some  lighter  light  of  freer  freedom,  battled 
with  some  Hydra-headed  wrong. 

Had  my  lips  been  smitten  into  music  by  the 
kisses  that  but  made  them  bleed. 

You  had  walked  with  Bice  and  the  angels  on 
that  verdant  and  enamelled  mead. 

I had  trod  the  road  which  Dante  treading  saw 
the  suns  of  seven  circles  shine. 

Ay!  perchance  had  seen  the  heavens  opening, 
as  they  opened  to  the  Florentine. 

And  the  mighty  nations  would  have  crowned 
me,  who  am  crownless  now  and  without 
name, 

m 


212 


POEMS 


And  some  orient  dawn  had  found  me  kneeling 
on  the  threshold  of  the  House  of  Fame. 


I had  sat  within  that  marble  circle  where  the 
oldest  bard  is  as  the  young. 

And  the  pipe  is  ever  dropping  honey,  and  the 
lyre’s  strings  are  ever  strung. 


Keats  had  lifted  up  his  hymeneal  curls  from  out 
the  poppy-seeded  wine. 

With  ambrosial  mouth  had  kissed  my  forehead, 
clasped  the  hand  of  noble  love  in  mine. 

And  at  springtide,  when  the  apple-blossoms  brush 
the  burnished  bosom  of  the  dove. 

Two  young  lovers  lying  in  an  orchard  would 
have  read  the  story  of  our  love. 


Would  have  read  the  legend  of  my  passion, 
known  the  bitter  secret  of  my  heart, 

Kissed  as  we  have  kissed,  but  never  parted  as 
we  two  are  fated  now  to  part. 


For  the  crimson  flower  of  our  life  is  eaten  by 
the  cankerworm  of  truth. 

And  no  hand  can  gather  up  the  fallen  withered 
petals  of  the  rose  of  youth. 


rAYKYniKPOS  EP122 


210 


fet  I am  not  sorry  that  I loved  you — ah ! what 
else  had  I a boy  to  do, — 

For  the  hungry  teeth  of  time  devour,  and  the 
silent-footed  years  pursue. 

Rudderless,  we  drift  athwart  a tempest,  and 
when  once  the  storm  of  youth  is  past. 
Without  lyre,  without  lute  or  chorus.  Death 
the  silent  pilot  comes  at  last. 

And  within  the  grave  there  is  no  pleasure,  for 
the  blindworm  battens  on  the  root. 

And  Desire  shudders  into  ashes,  and  the  tree  of 
Passion  bears  no  fruit. 

Ah ! what  else  had  I to  do  but  love  you,  God’s 
own  mother  was  less  dear  to  me. 

And  less  dear  the  Cytheraean  rising  like  an 
argent  lily  from  the  sea. 

I have  made  my  choice,  have  lived  my  poems, 
and,  though  youth  is  gone  in  wasted  days, 

I have  found  the  lover's  crown  of  myrtle  better 
than  the  poet's  crown  of  bays. 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


FROM  SPRING  DAYS  TO  WINTER 

(for  music) 

IN  the  glad  springtime  when  leaves  were 
green, 

O merrily  the  throstle  sings  ! 

I sought,  amid  the  tangled  sheen. 

Love  whom  mine  eyes  had  never  seen, 

O the  glad  dove  has  golden  wings ! 


Between  the  blossoms  red  and  white, 
O merrily  the  throstle  sings  ! 

My  love  first  came  into  my  sight, 

O perfect  vision  of  delight, 

O the  glad  dove  has  golden  wings ! 


The  yellow  apples  glowed  like  fire, 

O merrily  the  throstle  sings  1 
O Love  too  great  for  lip  or  lyre. 

Blown  rose  of  love  and  of  desire, 

O the  glad  dove  has  golden  wings ! 

HI 


218 


POEMS 


But  now  with  snow  the  tree  is  grey. 

Ah,  sadly  now  the  throstle  sings ! 

My  love  is  dead  : ah  ! well-a-day. 

See  at  her  silent  feet  I lay 
A dove  with  broken  wings ! 

Ah,  Love  ! ah.  Love  ! that  thou  wert  slain-— 
Fond  Dove,  fond  Dove  return  again ! 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


219 


TRISTITIiE 

AiXtvov,  aXktvov  ciTre,  rb  8*  eZ  viKorat, 

OWELL  for  him  who  lives  at  ease 

With  garnered  gold  in  wide  domain. 
Nor  heeds  the  splashing  of  the  rain. 

The  crashing  down  of  forest  trees. 

O well  for  him  who  ne’er  hath  known 
The  travail  of  the  hungry  years, 

A father  grey  with  grief  and  tears, 

A mother  weeping  all  alone. 

But  well  for  him  whose  foot  hath  trod 
The  weary  road  of  toil  and  strife. 

Yet  from  the  sorrows  of  his  life 
Builds  ladders  to  be  nearer  God. 


220 


POEMS 


THE  TRUE  KNOWLEDGE 

. . . dvay<ai(i>s  8'  e^ei 
^lov  Oepi^eiv  d)CTT€  Kapnipov  ord^vv, 

KOI  Toy  pev  fivai  rbv  8c  pr]. 

Thou  knowest  all ; I seek  in  vain 

What  lands  to  till  or  sow  with  seed— 
The  land  is  black  with  briar  and  weed, 
Nor  cares  for  falling  tears  or  rain. 

Thou  knowest  all ; I sit  and  wait 

With  blinded  eyes  and  hands  that  fail. 
Till  the  last  lifting  of  the  veil 
And  the  first  opening  of  the  gate. 

Thou  knowest  all ; I cannot  see. 

I trust  I shall  not  live  in  vain, 

I know  that  we  shall  meet  again 
In  some  divine  eternity. 


UNCOLLECTLD  POEMS 


221 


IMPRESSIONS 


LE  JARDIN 

The  lily's  withered  chalice  falls 
Around  its  rod  of  dusty  gold, 

And  from  the  beech-trees  on  the  wold 
The  last  wood-pigeon  coos  and  calls. 

The  gaudy  leonine  sunflower 

Hangs  black  and  barren  on  its  stalk. 
And  down  the  windy  garden  walk 
The  dead  leaves  scatter, — hour  by  hour. 

Pale  privet-petals  white  as  milk 
Are  blown  into  a snowy  mass : 

The  roses  lie  upon  the  grass 
Like  little  shreds  of  crimson  silk. 


222 


I'OEMS 


n 

LA  MER 

A WHITE  mist  drifts  across  the  shroudS; 
A wild  moon  in  this  wintry  sky 
Gleams  like  an  angry  lion’s  eye 
Out  of  a mane  of  tawny  clouds. 

The  muffled  steersman  at  the  wheel 
Is  but  a shadow  in  the  gloom ; — 

And  in  the  throbbing  engine-room 
Leap  the  long  rods  of  polished  steeL 

The  shattered  storm  has  left  its  trace 
Upon  this  huge  and  heaving  dome. 

For  the  thin  threads  of  yellow  foam 
Float  on  the  waves  like  ravelled  lace. 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


22a 


UNDER  THE  BALCONY 

O BEAUTIFUL  star  with  the  crimson 
mouth  I 

O moon  with  the  brows  of  gold  ! 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  from  the  odorous  south ! 

And  light  for  my  love  her  way. 

Lest  her  little  feet  should  stray 
On  the  windy  hill  and  the  wold  ! 

O beautiful  star  with  the  crimson  mouth  I 
O moon  with  the  brows  of  gold  ! 

O ship  that  shakes  on  the  desolate  sea  I 
O ship  with  the  wet,  white  sail ! 

Put  in,  put  in,  to  the  port  to  me ! 

For  my  love  and  I would  go 
To  the  land  where  the  daffodils  blow 
In  the  heart  of  a violet  dale  ! 

O ship  that  shakes  on  the  desolate  sea ! 

O ship  with  the  wet,  white  sail ! 

O rapturous  bird  with  the  low,  sweet  note  ! 

O bird  that  sits  on  the  spray  ! 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  from  your  soft  brown  throat! 
And  my  love  in  her  little  bed 
Will  listen,  and  lift  her  head 


224 


POEMS 


From  the  pillow,  and  come  my  way  I 
O rapturous  bird  with  the  low,  sweet  note ! 

O bird  that  sits  on  the  spray  ! 

O blossom  that  hangs  in  the  tremulous  air ! 

O blossom  with  lips  of  snow  ! 

Come  down,  come  down,  for  my  love  to  wear 
You  will  die  on  her  head  in  a crown, 
You  will  die  in  a fold  of  her  gown. 

To  her  little  light  heart  you  will  go  ! 

O blossom  that  hangs  in  the  tremulous  air ! 
O blossom  with  lips  of  snow  1 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


225 


THE  HARLOT’S  HOUSE 

WE  caught  the  tread  of  dancing  feet. 

We  loitered  down  the  moonlit  street, 
And  stopped  beneath  the  harlot’s  house. 

Inside,  above  the  din  and  fray. 

We  heard  the  loud  musicians  play 
The  ^ Treues  Liebes  Herz  * of  Strauss. 

Like  strange  mechanical  grotesques. 

Making  fantastic  arabesques, 

The  shadows  raced  across  the  blind. 

We  watched  the  ghostly  dancers  spin 
To  sound  of  horn  and  violin. 

Like  black  leaves  wheeling  in  the  wind. 

Like  wire-pulled  automatons. 

Slim  silhouetted  skeletons 

Went  sidling  through  the  slow  quadrille, 

Then  took  each  other  by  the  hand. 

And  danced  a stately  saraband  ; 

Their  laughter  echoed  thin  and  shrilL 


226 


POEMS 


Sometimes  a clockwork  puppet  pressed 
A phantom  lover  to  her  breast. 
Sometimes  they  seemed  to  try  to  sing. 

Sometimes  a horrible  marionette 
Came  out,  and  smoked  its  cigarette 
Upon  the  steps  like  a live  thing. 

Then,  turning  to  my  love,  I said, 

‘The  dead  are  dancing  with  the  dead, 
The  dust  is  whirling  with  the  dust.’ 

But  she — she  heard  the  violin. 

And  left  my  side,  and  entered  in : 

Love  passed  into  the  house  of  lust. 

Then  suddenly  the  tune  went  false. 

The  dancers  wearied  of  the  waltz. 

The  shadows  ceased  to  wheel  and  whirl 

And  down  the  long  and  silent  street. 
The  dawn,  with  silver-sandalled  feet. 
Crept  like  a frightened  girl. 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


227 


LE  JARDIN  DES  TUILERIES 

This  winter  air  is  keen  and  cold, 

And  keen  and  cold  this  winter  sim. 
But  round  ray  chair  the  children  run 
Like  little  things  of  dancing  gold. 

Sometimes  about  the  painted  kiosk 
The  mimic  soldiers  strut  and  stride^ 
Sometimes  the  blue-eyed  brigands  hide 
In  the  bleak  tangles  of  the  bosk. 

And  sometimes,  while  the  old  nurse  cons 
Her  book,  they  steal  across  the  square. 
And  launch  their  paper  navies  where 
Huge  Triton  writhes  in  greenish  bronze. 

And  now  in  mimic  flight  they  flee. 

And  now  they  rush,  a boisterous  band— 
And,  tiny  hand  on  tiny  hand. 

Climb  up  the  black  and  leafless  tree. 

Ah  ! cruel  tree  ! if  I were  you. 

And  children  climbed  me,  for  their  sake 
Though  it  be  winter  I would  break 
Into  spring  blossoms  white  and  blue  ! 


228 


POEMS 


ON  THE  SALE  BY  AUCTION  OF 
KEATS’  LOVE  LETTERS 

These  are  the  letters  which  Endymion 
wrote 

To  one  he  loved  in  secret,  and  apart. 

And  now  the  brawlers  of  the  auction  mart 
Bargain  and  bid  for  each  poor  blotted  note. 

Ay  ! for  each  separate  pulse  of  passion  quote 
The  merchant’s  price.  I think  they  love  not 
art 

Who  break  the  crystal  of  a poet’s  heart 
That  small  and  sickly  eyes  may  glare  and  gloat. 

Is  it  not  said  that  many  years  ago. 

In  a far  Eastern  town,  some  soldiers  ran 
With  torches  through  the  midnight,  and  began 
To  wrangle  for  mean  raiment,  and  to  throw 
Dice  for  the  garments  of  a wretched  man. 

Not  knowing  the  God’s  wonder,  or  His  woe? 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


229 


THE  NEW  REMORSE 

The  sin  was  mine ; I did  not  understand. 

So  now  is  music  prisoned  in  her  cave, 
Save  where  some  ebbing  desultory  wave 
Frets  with  its  restless  whirls  this  meagre  strand. 
And  in  the  withered  hollow  of  this  land 
Hath  Summer  dug  herself  so  deep  a grave, 
That  hardly  can  the  leaden  willow  crave 
One  silver  blossom  from  keen  Winter’s  hand. 

But  who  is  this  who  cometh  by  the  shore  ? 

(Nay,  love,  look  up  and  wonder !)  Who  is  this 
Who  cometh  in  dyed  garments  from  the 
South  ? 

It  is  thy  new-found  Lord,  and  he  shall  kiss 
The  yet  unravished  roses  of  thy  mouth. 

And  I shall  weep  and  worship,  as  before. 


230 


POEMS 


FANTAISIES  DfiCORATIVES 


LE  PANNEAU 

NDER  the  rose-tree’s  dancing  shade 


There  stands  a little  ivory  girl. 
Pulling  the  leaves  of  pink  and  pearl 
With  pale  green  nails  of  polished  jade. 

The  red  leaves  fall  upon  the  mould. 
The  white  leaves  flutter,  one  by  one, 
Down  to  a blue  bowl  where  the  sun. 
Like  a great  dragon,  writhes  in  gold. 

The  white  leaves  float  upon  the  air. 
The  red  leaves  flutter  idly  down. 
Some  fall  upon  her  yellow  gown, 

And  some  upon  her  raven  hair. 

She  takes  an  amber  lute  and  sings. 

And  as  she  sings  a silver  crane 
Begins  his  scarlet  neck  to  strain. 
And  flap  his  burnished  metal  wings. 


I 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


281 


She  takes  a lute  of  amber  bright. 

And  from  the  thicket  where  he  lies 
Her  lover,  with  his  almond  eyes. 
Watches  her  movements  in  delight. 

And  now  she  gives  a cry  of  fear. 

And  tiny  tears  begin  to  start : 

A thorn  has  wounded  with  its  dart 
The  pink-veined  sea-shell  of  her  ear. 

And  now  she  laughs  a merry  note : 
There  has  fallen  a petal  of  the  rose 
Just  where  the  yellow  satin  shows 
The  blue-veined  flower  of  her  throat. 

With  pale  green  nails  of  polished  jade. 
Pulling  the  leaves  of  pink  and  pearl. 
There  stands  a little  ivory  girl 
Under  the  rose-tree’s  dancing  shade. 


232 


POEMS 


n 

LES  BALLONS 

AGAINST  these  turbid  turquoise  skies 
Xjl  The  light  and  luminous  balloons 
Dip  and  drift  like  satin  moons, 

Drift  like  silken  butterflies ; 

Reel  with  every  windy  gust. 

Rise  and  reel  like  dancing  girls. 

Float  like  strange  transparent  pearls. 
Fall  and  float  like  silver  dust. 

Now  to  the  low  leaves  they  cling. 

Each  with  coy  fantastic  pose, 

Each  a petal  of  a rose 
Straining  at  a gossamer  string. 

Then  to  the  tall  trees  they  climb. 

Like  thin  globes  of  amethyst. 
Wandering  opals  keeping  tryst 
With  the  rubies  of  the  lime. 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


233 


CANZONET 

I HAVE  no  store 

Of  gryphon-guarded  gold  ; 
Now,  as  before. 

Bare  is  the  shepherd’s  fold. 

Rubies  nor  pearls 
Have  I to  gem  thy  throat ; 

Yet  woodland  girls 
Have  loved  the  shepherd’s  note. 

Then  pluck  a reed 
And  bid  me  sing  to  thee. 

For  I would  feed 
Thine  ears  with  melody. 

Who  art  more  fair 
Than  fairest  fleur-de-lys. 

More  sweet  and  rare 
Than  sweetest  ambergris. 

What  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Young  Hyacinth  is  slain. 

Pan  is  not  here, 

And  will  not  come  again. 


234 


POEMS 


No  horned  Faun 
Treads  down  the  yellow  leas. 
No  God  at  dawn 
Steals  through  the  olive  trees. 

Hylas  is  dead. 

Nor  will  he  e’er  divine 
Those  little  red 
Rose-petalled  lips  of  thine. 

On  the  high  hill 
No  ivory  dryads  play. 

Silver  and  still 
Sinks  the  sad  autumn  claj. 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


235 


SYMPHONY  IN  YELLOW 


Crawls  like  a yellow  butterfly. 
And,  here  and  there,  a passer-by 
Shows  like  a little  restless  midge. 

Big  barges  full  of  yellow  hay 

Are  moored  against  the  shadowy  wharf, 
And,  like  a yellow  silken  scarf. 

The  thick  fog  hangs  along  the  quay. 

The  yellow  leaves  begin  to  fade 
And  flutter  from  the  Temple  elms. 

And  at  my  feet  the  pale  green  Thames 
Lies  like  a rod  of  rippled  jade. 


N omnibus  across  the  bridge 


236 


POEMS 


IN  THE  FOREST 

OUT  of  the  mid-wood’s  twilight 
Into  the  meadow’s  dawn^ 

Ivory  limbed  and  brown-eyed, 

Flashes  my  Faun  ! 

He  skips  through  the  copses  singing. 

And  his  shadow  dances  along, 

And  I know  not  which  I should  follow. 
Shadow  or  song ! 

O Hunter,  snare  me  his  shadow  1 
O Nightingale,  catch  me  his  strain  ! 
Else  moonstruck  with  music  and  madness 
I track  him  in  vain  J 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


237 


TO  MY  WIFE 

WITH  A COPY  OF  MY  POEMS 

I CAN  write  no  stately  proem 
As  a prelude  to  my  lay ; 

From  a poet  to  a poem 
I would  dare  to  say. 

For  if  of  these  fallen  petals 
One  to  you  seem  fair. 

Love  will  waft  it  till  it  settles 
On  your  hair. 

And  when  wind  and  winter  harden 
All  the  loveless  land. 

It  will  whisper  of  the  garden, 

You  will  understand. 


238 


POEMS 


WITH  A COPY  OF  ‘ A HOUSE  OF 
POMEGRANATES’ 

GO,  little  book. 

To  him  who,  on  a lute  with  horns  of 
pearl. 

Sang  of  the  white  feet  of  the  Golden  Girl : 

And  bid  him  look 

Into  thy  pages ; it  may  hap  that  he 
May  find  that  golden  maidens  dance  through 
thee. 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


23d 


ROSES  AND  RUE 
To  L.  L. 

OULD  we  dig  up  this  long-buried 


treasure. 

Were  it  worth  the  pleasure. 

We  never  could  learn  love’s  song. 

We  are  parted  too  long. 

Could  the  passionate  past  that  is  fled 
Call  back  its  dead, 

Could  we  live  it  all  over  again, 

Were  it  worth  the  pain  ! 

I remember  we  used  to  meet 
By  an  ivied  seat. 

And  you  warbled  each  pretty  word 
With  the  air  of  a bird  ; 

And  your  voice  had  a quaver  in  it, 

Just  like  a linnet. 

And  shook,  as  the  blackbird's  throat 
With  its  last  big  note  ; 

And  your  eyes,  they  were  green  and  grey 
Like  an  April  day. 

But  lit  into  amethyst 

When  I stooped  and  kissed  ; 


240 


rOEMS 


And  your  mouth,  it  would  never  smile 
For  a long,  long  while. 

Then  it  rippled  all  over  with  laughter 
Five  minutes  after. 

You  were  always  afraid  of  a shower, 
Just  like  a flower: 

I remember  you  started  and  ran 
When  the  rain  began. 

I remember  I never  could  catch  you. 
For  no  one  could  match  you. 

You  had  wonderful,  luminous,  fleet. 
Little  wings  to  your  feet. 

I remember  your  hair — did  I tie  it  ? 

For  it  always  ran  riot — 

Like  a tangled  sunbeam  of  gold  : 
These  things  are  old. 

I remember  so  well  the  room. 

And  the  lilac  bloom 
That  beat  at  the  dripping  pane 
In  the  warm  June  rain ; 

And  the  colour  of  your  gown. 

It  was  amber-brown. 

And  two  yellow  satin  bows 
From  your  shoulders  rose. 


UNCOLLECTED  POEMS 


241 


And  the  handkerchief  of  French  lace 
Which  you  held  to  your  face — 

Had  a small  tear  left  a stain  ? 

Or  was  it  the  rain  ? 

On  your  hand  as  it  waved  adieu 
There  were  veins  of  blue ; 

In  your  voice  as  it  said  good-bye 
Was  a petulant  cry, 

* You  have  only  wasted  your  life/ 

(Ah,  that  was  the  knife  !) 

When  I rushed  through  the  garden  gate 
It  was  all  too  late. 

Could  we  live  it  over  again. 

Were  it  worth  the  pain. 

Could  the  passionate  past  that  is  fled 
Call  back  its  dead  ! 

Well,  if  my  heart  must  break. 

Dear  love,  for  your  sake. 

It  will  break  in  music,  I know. 

Poets’  hearts  break  so. 

But  strange  that  I was  not  told 
That  the  brain  can  hold 

In  a tiny  ivory  cell 

God’s  heaven  and  hell. 


Q 


THE  SPHINIC 

ro 

MARCEL  SCHWOB 
IN  FRIENDSHIP 
AND 

III  ADMIBATIOM. 


THE  SPHINX 


IN  a dim  corner  of  my  room  for  longer  than 
my  fancy  thinks 

A beautiful  and  silent  Sphinx  has  watched  me 
through  the  shifting  gloom. 

Inviolate  and  immobile  she  does  not  rise  she 
does  not  stir 

For  silver  moons  are  naught  to  her  and  naught 
to  her  the  suns  that  reel. 

Red  follows  grey  across  the  air,  the  waves  of 
moonlight  ebb  and  flow 

But  with  the  Dawn  she  does  not  go  and  in  the 
night-time  she  is  there. 

Dawn  follows  Dawn  and  Nights  grow  old  and 
all  the  while  this  curious  cat 
Lies  couching  on  the  Chinese  mat  with  eyes  of 
satin  rimmed  with  gold. 

Upon  the  mat  she  lies  and  leers  and  on  the 
tawny  throat  of  her 

Flutters  the  soft  and  silky  fur  or  ripples  to  her 
pointed  ears. 


247 


248 


POEMS 


Come  forth,  my  lovely  seneschal!  so  somnolent, 
so  statuesque ! 

Come  forth  you  exquisite  grotesque  ! half  woman 
and  half  animal ! 

Come  forth  my  lovely  languorous  Sphinx!  and 
put  your  head  upon  my  knee  1 

And  let  me  stroke  your  throat  and  see  your 
body  spotted  like  the  Lynx  ! 

And  let  me  touch  those  curving  claws  of  yellow 
ivory  and  grasp 

The  tail  that  like  a monstrous  Asp  coils  round 
your  heavy  velvet  paws  ! 


THE  SPHINX 


249 


A THOUSAND  weary  centuries  are  thine 
while  I have  hardly  seen 
Some  twenty  summers  cast  their  green  for 
Autumn’s  gaudy  liveries. 

But  you  can  read  the  Hieroglyphs  on  the 
great  sandstone  obelisks. 

And  you  have  talked  with  Basilisks,  and  you 
have  looked  on  Hippogriffs. 

O tell  me,  were  you  standing  by  when  Isis  to 
Osiris  knelt } 

And  did  you  watch  the  Egyptian  melt  her  union 
for  Antony 

And  drink  the  jewel-drunken  wine  and  bend 
her  head  in  mimic  awe 

To  see  the  huge  proconsul  draw  the  salted  tunny 
from  the  brine  ? 

And  did  you  mark  the  Cyprian  kiss  white  Adon 
on  his  catafalque  ? 

And  did  you  follow  Amenalk,  the  God  of 
Heliopolis  ? 


250 


POEMS 


And  did  you  talk  with  Thoth,  and  did  you  hear 
the  moon-horned  lo  weep  ? 

And  know  the  painted  kings  who  sleep  beneath 
the  wedge-shaped  Pyramid  ? 


THE  SPHINX 


251 


Lift  up  your  large  black  satin  eyes  which  are 
like  cushions  where  one  sinks  ! 

Fawn  at  my  feet,  fantastic  Sphinx  ! and  sing  me 
all  your  memories ! 

Sing  to  me  of  the  Jewish  maid  who  wandered 
with  the  Holy  Child, 

And  how  you  led  them  through  the  wild,  and 
how  they  slept  beneath  your  shade. 

Sing  to  me  of  that  odorous  green  eve  when 
crouching  by  the  marge 

You  heard  from  Adrian’s  gilded  barge  the 
laughter  of  Antinous 

And  lapped  the  stream  and  fed  your  drouth  and 
watched  with  hot  and  hungry  stare 
The  ivory  body  of  that  rare  young  slave  with 
his  pomegranate  mouth  I 

Sing  to  me  of  the  Labyrinth  in  which  the  twi- 
formed  bull  was  stalled  ! 

Sing  to  me  of  the  night  you  crawled  across  the 
temple’s  granite  plinth 


262 


POEMS 


When  through  the  purple  corridors  the  screaming 
scarlet  Ibis  flew 

In  terror,  and  a horrid  dew  dripped  from  the 
moaning  Mandragores, 

And  the  great  torpid  crocodile  within  the  tank 
shed  slimy  tears. 

And  tare  the  jewels  from  his  ears  and  staggered 
back  into  the  Nile, 

And  the  priests  cursed  you  with  shrill  psalms  as 
in  your  claws  you  seized  their  snake 

And  crept  away  with  it  to  slake  your  passion  by 
the  shuddering  palms. 


THE  SPHINX 


263 


WHO  were  your  lovers?  who  were  they 
who  wrestled  for  you  in  the  dust  ? 
Which  was  the  vessel  of  your  Lust  ? What 
Leman  had  you,  every  day  ? 

Did  giant  Lizards  come  and  crouch  before  you 
on  the  reedy  banks  ? 

Did  Gryphons  with  great  metal  flanks  leap  on 
you  in  your  trampled  couch  ? 

Did  monstrous  hippopotami  come  sidling  toward 
you  in  the  mist  ? 

Did  gilt-scaled  dragons  writhe  and  twist  with 
passion  as  you  passed  them  by  ? 

And  from  the  brick-built  Lycian  tomb  what 
horrible  Chimera  came 

With  fearful  heads  and  fearful  flame  to  breed 
new  wonders  from  your  womb  ? 


264 


POEMS 


OR  had  you  shameful  secret  quests  and  did 
you  harry  to  your  home 

Some  Nereid  coiled  in  amber  foam  with  curious 
rock  crystal  breasts  ? 

Or  did  you  treading  through  the  froth  call  to 
the  brown  Sidonian 

For  tidings  of  Leviathan,  Leviathan  or  Be- 
hemoth ? 

Or  did  you  when  the  sun  was  set  climb  up  the 
cactus-covered  slope 

To  meet  your  swarthy  Ethiop  whose  body  was 
of  polished  jet  ? 

Or  did  you  while  the  earthen  skiffs  dropped 
down  the  grey  Nilotic  flats 
At  twilight  and  the  flickering  bats  flew  round 
the  temple's  triple  glyphs 

Steal  to  the  border  of  the  bar  and  swim  across 
the  silent  lake 

And  slink  into  the  vault  and  make  the  Pyramid 
your  liipanar 


THE  SPHINX 


266 


Till  from  each  black  sarcophagus  rose  up  the 
painted  swathed  dead  ? 

Or  did  you  lure  unto  your  bed  the  ivory-horned 
Tragelaphos  ? 

Or  did  you  love  the  god  of  flies  who  plagued 
the  Hebrews  and  was  splashed 

With  wine  unto  the  waist?  or  Pasht,  who  had 
green  beryls  for  her  eyes  ? 

Or  that  young  god,  the  Tyrian,  who  was  more 
amorous  than  the  dove 

Of  Ashtaroth  ? or  did  you  love  the  god  of  the 
Assyrian 

Whose  wings,  like  strange  transparent  talc,  rose 
high  above  his  hawk-faced  head. 

Painted  with  silver  and  with  red  and  ribbed  with 
rods  of  Oreichalch  ? 

Or  did  huge  Apis  from  his  car  leap  down  and 
lay  before  your  feet 

Big  blossoms  of  the  honey-sweet  and  honey- 
coloured  nenuphar  ? 


266 


POEMS 


HOW  subtle-secret  is  your  smile  ! Did  you 
love  none  then  ? Nay,  I know 
Great  Ammon  was  your  bedfellow  ! He  lay  with 
you  beside  the  Nile  ! 

The  river-horses  in  the  slime  trumpeted  when 
they  saw  him  come 

Odorous  with  Syrian  galbanum  and  smeared  with 
spikenard  and  with  thyme. 

He  came  along  the  river  bank  like  some  tall 
galley  argent-sailed. 

He  strode  across  the  waters,  mailed  in  beauty, 
and  the  waters  sank. 

He  strode  across  the  desert  sand:  he  reached 
the  valley  where  you  lay : 

He  waited  till  the  dawn  of  day : then  touched 
your  black  breasts  with  his  hand. 

You  kissed  his  mouth  with  mouths  of  flame: 
you  made  the  horned  god  your  own : 

You  stood  behind  him  on  his  throne  ; you  called 
him  by  his  secret  name. 


THE  SPHINX 


267 


You  whispered  monstrous  oracles  into  the 
caverns  of  his  ears  ; 

With  blood  of  goats  and  blood  of  steers  you 
taught  him  monstrous  miracles. 

White  Ammon  was  your  bedfellow  I Your 
chamber  was  the  steaming  Nile  ! 

And  with  your  curved  archaic  smile  you  watched 
his  passion  come  and  go. 


258 


FOEMa 


WITH  Syrian  oils  his  brows  were  bright: 
and  wide-spread  as  a tent  at  noon 
His  marble  limbs  made  pale  the  moon  and  lent 
the  day  a larger  light. 

His  long  hair  was  nine  cubits’  span  and  coloured 
like  that  yellow  gem 

Which  hidden  in  their  garment’s  hem  the 
merchants  bring  from  Kurdistan. 

His  face  was  as  the  must  that  lies  upon  a vat  of 
new-made  wine ; 

The  seas  could  not  insapphirine  the  perfect  azure 
of  his  eyes. 

His  thick  soft  throat  was  white  as  milk  and 
threaded  with  thin  veins  of  blue  : 

And  curious  pearls  like  frozen  dew  were 
broidered  on  his  flowing  silk. 


THE  SPHINX 


ON  pearl  and  porphyry  pedestalled  he  was 
too  bright  to  look  upon  : 

For  on  his  ivory  breast  there  shone  the  wondrous 
ocean-emerald, 

That  mystic  moonlit  jewel  which  some  diver  of 
the  Colchian  caves 

Had  found  beneath  the  blackening  waves  and 
carried  to  the  Colchian  witch. 

Before  his  gilded  galiot  ran  naked  vine-wreathed 
cory  bants. 

And  lines  of  swaying  elephants  knelt  down  to 
draw  his  chariot, 

And  lines  of  swarthy  Nubians  bare  up  his  litter 
as  he  rode 

Down  the  great  granite-paven  road  between  the 
nodding  peacock-fans. 

The  merchants  brought  him  steatite  from  Sidon 
in  their  painted  ships : 

The  meanest  cup  that  touched  his  lips  was 
fashioned  from  a chrysolite. 


260 


POEMS 


The  merchants  brought  him  cedar  chests  of  rich 
apparel  bound  with  cords  : 

His  train  was  borne  by  Memphian  lords:  young 
kings  were  glad  to  be  his  guests. 

Ten  hundred  shaven  priests  did  bow  to  Ammon’s 
altar  day  and  night, 

Ten  hundred  lamps  did  wave  their  light  through 
Ammon’s  carven  house — and  now 

Foul  snake  and  speckled  adder  with  their  young 
ones  crawl  from  stone  to  stone 

For  ruined  is  the  house  and  prone  the  great 
rose-marble  monolith  ! 

Wild  ass  or  trotting  jackal  comes  and  couches 
in  the  mouldering  gates  : 

Wild  satyrs  call  unto  their  mates  across  the 
fallen  fluted  drums. 

And  on  the  summit  of  the  pile  the  blue-faced 
ape  of  Horus  sits 

And  gibbers  while  the  fig-tree  splits  the  pillars 
of  the  peristyle 


THE  SPHINX 


261 


The  god  is  scattered  here  and  there ; deep 
hidden  in  the  windy  sand 
I saw  his  giant  granite  hand  still  clenched  in 
impotent  despair. 

And  many  a wandering  caravan  of  stately 
negroes  silken-shawled, 

Crossing  the  desert,  halts  appalled  before  the 
neck  that  none  can  span. 

And  many  a bearded  Bedouin  draws  back  his 
yellow-striped  burnous 

To  gaze  upon  the  Titan  thews  of  him  who  was 
thy  paladin. 


262 


POEMS 


GO,  seek  his  fragments  on  the  moor  and 
wash  them  in  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  their  pieces  make  anew  thy  mutilated 
paramour ! 

Go,  seek  them  where  they  lie  alone  and  from 
their  broken  pieces  make 
Thy  bruised  bedfellow  ! And  wake  mad  passions 
in  the  senseless  stone ! 

Charm  his  dull  ear  with  Syrian  hymns ! he  loved 
your  body  1 oh,  be  kind, 

Pour  spikenard  on  his  hair,  and  wind  soft  rolls 
of  linen  round  his  limbs  ! 

Wind  round  his  head  the  figured  coins!  stain 
with  red  fruits  those  pallid  lips! 

Weave  purple  for  his  shrunken  hips  ! and  purple 
for  his  barren  loins  | 


THE  SPHINX 


263 


Away  to  Egypt ! Have  no  fear.  Only  one 
^ God  has  ever  died. 

Only  one  God  has  let  His  side  be  wounded  by  a 
soldier's  spear. 

But  these,  thy  lovers,  are  not  dead.  Still  by  the 
hundred-cubit  gate 

Dog-faced  Anubis  sits  in  state  with  lotus-lilies 
for  thy  head. 

Still  from  his  chair  of  porphyry  gaunt  Memnon 
strains  his  lidless  eyes 

Across  the  empty  land,  and  cries  each  yellow 
morning  unto  thee. 

And  Nilus  with  his  broken  horn  lies  in  his  black 
and  oozy  bed 

And  till  thy  coming  will  not  spread  his  waters  on 
the  withering  corn. 

Your  lovers  are  not  dead,  I know.  They  will 
rise  up  and  hear  your  voice 
And  clash  their  cymbals  and  rejoice  and  run  to 
kiss  your  mouth ! And  so. 


264 


POEMS 


Set  wings  upon  your  argosies ! Set  horses  to 
your  ebon  car ! 

Back  to  your  Nile  ! Or  if  you  are  grown  sick  of 
dead  divinities 

Follow  some  roving  lion’s  spoor  across  the  copper- 
coloured  plain. 

Reach  out  and  hale  him  by  the  mane  and  bid 
him  be  your  paramour ! 

Couch  by  his  side  upon  the  grass  and  set  your 
white  teeth  in  his  throat 

And  when  you  hear  his  dying  note  lash  your 
long  flanks  of  polished  brass 

And  take  a tiger  for  your  mate,  whose  amber 
sides  are  flecked  with  black, 

And  ride  upon  his  gilded  back  in  triumph 
through  the  Theban  gate. 

And  toy  with  him  in  amorous  jests,  and  when 
he  turns,  and  snarls,  and  gnaws, 

O smite  him  with  your  jasper  claws  I and  bruise 
him  with  your  agate  breasts  I 


THE  SPHINX 


265 


WHY  are  you  tarrying?  Get  hence!  I 
weary  of  your  sullen  ways, 

I weary  of  your  steadfast  gaze,  your  somnolent 
magnificence. 

Your  horrible  and  heavy  breath  makes  the  light 
flicker  in  the  lamp. 

And  on  my  brow  I feel  the  damp  and  dreadful 
dews  of  night  and  death. 

Your  eyes  are  like  fantastic  moons  that  shiver 
in  some  stagnant  lake. 

Your  tongue  is  like  a scarlet  snake  that  dances 
to  fantastic  tunes. 

Your  pulse  makes  poisonous  melodies,  and  your 
black  throat  is  like  the  hole 
Left  by  some  torch  or  burning  coal  on  Saracenic 
tapestries. 

Away!  The  sulphur-coloured  stars  are  hurrying 
through  the  Western  gate  ! 

Away ! Or  it  may  be  too  late  to  climb  their 
silent  silver  cars ! 


266 


POEMS 


See,  the  dawn  shivers  round  the  grey  gilt-dialled 
towers,  and  the  rain 

Streams  down  each  diamonded  pane  and  blurs 
with  tears  the  wannish  day. 

What  snake-tressed  fury  fresh  from  Hell,  with 
uncouth  gestures  and  unclean, 

Stole  from  the  poppy-drowsy  queen  and  led  you 
to  a student’s  ceil  ? 


THE  SPHINX 


WHAT  songless  tongueless  ghost  of  sin  crept 
through  the  curtains  of  the  night, 

And  saw  my  taper  burning  bright,  and  knocked, 
and  bade  you  enter  in  ? 

Are  there  not  others  more  accursed,  whiter  with 
leprosies  than  I ? 

Are  Abanaand  Pharphar  dry  that  you  come  here 
to  slake  your  thirst  ? 

Get  hence,  you  loathsome  mystery ! Hideous 
animal,  get  hence ! 

You  wake  in  me  each  bestial  sense,  you  make  me 
what  I would  not  be. 

You  make  my  creed  a barren  sham,  you  wake 
foul  dreams  of  sensual  life. 

And  Atys  with  his  blood-stained  knife  were 
better  than  the  thing  I am. 

False  Sphinx ! False  Sphinx ! By  reedy  Styx 
old  Charon,  leaning  on  his  oar, 

Waits  for  my  coin.  Go  thou  before,  and  leave 
rac  to  my  crucifix. 


268 


POEMS 


Whose  pallid  harden,  sick  with  pain,  watches 
the  world  with  wearied  eyes, 

And  weeps  for  every  soul  that  dies,  and  weeps 
for  every  soul  in  vain. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL 


tff  MEMORIAM 

C.  T.  W. 

SOMETIME  TKOOPER  OP  THE  ROYAL  HORSE  GUARDS 
OBIIT  H.M.  PRISON,  READING,  BERKSHIRE 
JULY  7,  1896 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL 


He  did  not  wear  his  scarlet  coat. 
For  blood  and  wine  are  red. 
And  blood  and  W'ine  were  on  his. hands 
When  they  found  him  wilh  the  dead, 
The  poor  dead  woman  whom  he  loved. 
And  murdered  in  her  bed. 

He  walked  amongst  the  Trial  Men 
In  a suit  of  shabby  grey ; 

A cricket  cap  was  on  his  head, 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay: 
But  I never  saw  a man  who  looked 
So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

I never  saw  a man  who  looked 
With  such  a wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 
Which  prisoners  call  the  sky. 

And  at  every  drifting  cloud  that  went 
With  sails  of  silver  by 


8 


74 


POEMS 


I walked,  with  other  souls  in  pain. 
Within  another  ring, 

And  was  wondering  if  the  man  had  done 
A great  or  little  thing. 

When  a voice  behind  me  whispered  low, 
That  fellow  *s  got  to  swing* 


Dear  Christ ! the  very  prison  walls 
Suddenly  seemed  to  reel. 

And  the  sky  above  my  head  became 
Like  a casque  of  scorching  steel ; 
And,  though  I was  a soul  in  pain. 
My  pain  I could  not  feel. 


I only  knew  what  hunted  thought 
Quickened  his  step,  and  why 
He  looked  upon  the  garish  day 
Whth  such  a wistful  eye  ,• 

The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved, 
And  so  he  had  to  die. 

r 

Yet  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 
By  each  let  this  be  heard. 

Some  do  it  with  a bitter  look, 

Some  with  a flattering  word, 

The  coward  does  it  with  a kiss. 

The  brave  man  with  a sword  ! 


BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  275 

/ 

Some  kill  their  love  when  they  are  young, 
And  some  when  they  are  old ; 

Some  strangle  with  the  hands  of  Lust, 

Some  with  the  hands  of  Gold  : 

The  kindest  use  a knife,  because 
The  dead  so  soon  grow  cold. 


Some  love  too  little,  some  too  long. 

Some  sell,  and  others  buy; 

Some  do  the  deed  with  many  tears, 

And  some  without  a sigh  : 

For  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves. 
Yet  each  man  does  not  die. 

He  does  not  die  a death  of  shame 
On  a day  of  dark  disgrace. 

Nor  have  a noose  about  his  neck. 

Nor  a cloth  upon  his  face. 

Nor  drop  feet  foremost  through  the  floor 
Into  an  empty  space. 

r 


He  does  not  sit  with  silent  men 
Who  watch  him  night  and  day ; 

Who  watch  him  when  he  tries  to  weep. 
And  when  he  tries  to  pray  ; 

Who  watch  him  lest  himself  should  rob 
The  prison  of  its  prey. 


27C 


POEMS 


He  does  not  wake  at  dawn  to  see 
Dread  figures  throng  his  room. 

The  shivering  Chaplain  robed  in  white. 
The  Sheriff  stern  with  gloom, 

And  the  Governor  all  in  shiny  black. 
With  the  yellow  face  of  Doom. 


He  does  not  rise  in  piteous  haste 
To  put  on  convict-clothes. 

While  some  coarse-mouthed  Doctor  gloats, 
and  notes 

Each  new  and  nerve-twitched  pose. 
Fingering  a watch  whose  little  ticks 
Are  like  horrible  hammer-blows. 


He  does  not  know  that  sickening  thirst 
That  sands  one’s  throat,  before 
The  hangman  with  his  gardener’s  gloves 
Slips  through  the  padded  door. 

And  binds  one  with  three  leathern  thongs, 
That  the  throat  may  thirst  no  more. 


He  does  not  bend  his  head  to  hear 
The  Burial  Office  read, 

Nor,  while  the  terror  of  his  soul 
Tells  him  he  is  not  dead. 

Cross  his  own  coffin,  as  he  moves 
Into  the  hideous  shed. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  277 


He  does  not  stare  upon  the  air 
Through  a little  roof  of  glass  ; 

He  does  not  pray  with  lips  of  clay 
For  his  agony  to  pass  ; 

Nor  feel  upon  his  shuddering  cheek 
The  kiss  of  Caiaphas. 


278 


POEMS 


n 

SIX  weeks  our  guardsman  walked  the  yard, 
In  the  suit  of  shabby  grey  ; 

His  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head. 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay, 

But  I never  saw  a man  who  looked 
So  wistfully  at  the  day. 


I never  saw  a man  who  looked 
With  such  a wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 
Which  prisoners  call  the  sky, 

And  at  every  wandering  cloud  that  trailed 
Its  ravelled  fleeces  by. 


He  did  not  wring  his  hands,  as  do 
Those  witless  men  who  dare 
To  try  to  rear  the  changeling  Hope 
In  the  cave  of  black  Despair : 

He  only  looked  upon  the  sun, 

And  drank  the  morning  air. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  279 


He  did  not  wring  his  hands  nor  weep. 
Nor  did  he  peek  or  pine. 

But  he  drank  the  air  as  though  it  held 
* Some  healthful  anodyne; 

With  open  mouth  he  drank  the  sun 
As  though  it  had  been  wine  ! 

And  I and  all  the  souls  in  pain. 

Who  tramped  the  other  ring. 

Forgot  if  we  ourselves  had  done 
A great  or  little  thing. 

And  watched  with  gaze  of  dull  amaze 
The  man  who  had  to  swing. 


And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  pass 
With  a step  so  light  and  gay, 

And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  look 
So  wistfully  at  the  day. 

And  strange  it  was  to  think  that  he 
Had  such  a debt  to  pay. 


For  oak  and  elm  have  pleasant  leaves 
That  in  the  spring-time  shoot : 

But  grim  to  see  is  the  gallows-tree. 
With  its  adder-bitten  root. 

And,  green  or  dry,  a man  must  die 
Before  it  bears  its  fruit ! 


POEMS 


The  loftiest  place  is  that  seat  of  grace 
For  which  all  worldlings  try  : 

But  who  would  stand  in  hempen  band 
Upon  a scaffold  high, 

And  through  a murderer’s  collar  take 
His  last  look  at  the  sky  ? 


It  is  sweet  to  dance  to  violins 
When  Love  and  Life  are  fair : 

To  dance  to  flutes,  to  dance  to  lutes 
Is  delicate  and  rare  : 

But  it  is  not  sweet  with  nimble  feet 
To  dance  upon  the  air ! 


So  with  curious  eyes  and  sick  surmise 
We  watched  him  day  by  day, 

And  wondered  if  each  one  of  us 
Would  end  the  self-same  way. 

For  none  can  tell  to  what  red  Hell 
His  sightless  soul  may  stray. 


At  last  the  dead  man  walked  no  more 
Amongst  the  Trial  Men, 

And  I knew  that  he  was  standing  up 
In  the  black  dock’s  dreadful  pen. 
And  that  never  would  I see  his  face 
In  God’s  sweet  world  again. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  281 


Like  two  doomed  ships  that  pass  in  storm 
We  had  crossed  each  other’s  way : 

But  we  made  no  sign,  vi  e said  no  word, 
We  had  no  word  to  say ; 

For  we  did  not  meet  in  the  holy  night, 
But  in  the  shameful  day. 

A prison  wall  was  round  us  both. 

Two  outcast  men  we  were  : 

The  world  had  thrust  us  from  its  heart, 
And  God  from  out  His  care : 

And  the  iron  gin  that  waits  for  Sin 
Had  caught  us  in  its  snare. 


282 


POEMS 


m 

IN  Debtors*  Yard  the  stones  are  hard. 

And  the  dripping  wall  is  high, 

So  it  was  there  he  took  the  air 
Beneath  the  leaden  sky. 

And  by  each  side  a Warder  walked. 

For  fear  the  man  might  die. 


Or  else  he  sat  with  those  who  w'atched 
His  anguish  night  and  day ; 

Who  watched  him  when  he  rose  to  weep. 
And  when  he  crouched  to  pray ; 

Who  watched  him  lest  himself  should  rob 
Their  scaffold  of  its  prey. 


The  Governor  w^as  strong  upon 
The  Regulations  Act : 

The  Doctor  said  that  Death  was  but 
A scientific  fact : 

And  twice  a day  the  Chaplain  called. 
And  left  a little  tract. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  283 


And  twice  a day  he  smoked  his  pipe. 
And  drank  his  quart  of  beer: 

His  soul  was  resolute,  and  held 
No  hiding-place  for  fear ; 

He  often  said  that  he  was  glad 
The  hangman’s  hands  were  near. 

But  why  he  said  so  strange  a thing 
No  Warder  dared  to  ask  : 

For  he  to  whom  a watcher’s  doom 
Is  given  as  his  task. 

Must  set  a lock  upon  his  lips. 

And  make  his  face  a mask. 


Or  else  he  might  be  moved,  and  try 
To  comfort  or  console  : 

And  what  should  Human  Pity  do 
Pent  up  in  Murderers'  Hole? 

What  word  of  grace  in  such  a place 
Could  help  a brother’s  soul  ? 

r 

With  slouch  and  swing  around  the  ring 
We  trod  the  Fools’  Parade! 

We  did  not  care  ; we  knew  we  were 
The  Devil’s  Own  Brigade  : 

And  shaven  head  and  feet  of  lead 
Make  a merry  masquerade. 


284 


POEMS 


We  tore  the  tarry  rope  to  shreds 
With  blunt  and  bleeding  nails  ; 

We  rubbed  the  doors,  and  scrubbed  the  floors, 
And  cleaned  the  shining  rails  : 

And,  rank  by  rank,  we  soaped  the  plank, 
And  clattered  with  the  pails. 


We  sewed  the  sacks,  we  broke  the  stones, 
We  turned  the  dusty  drill : 

We  banged  the  tins,  and  bawled  the  hymns. 
And  sweated  on  the  mill : 

But  in  the  heart  of  every  man 
Terror  was  lying  still. 


So  still  it  lay  that  every  day 

Crawled  like  a weed-clogged  wave  ; 
And  we  forgot  the  bitter  lot 
That  waits  for  fool  and  knave. 

Till  once,  as  we  tramped  in  from  work, 
We  passed  an  open  grave. 


With  yawning  mouth  the  yellow  hole 
Gaped  for  a living  thing  ; 

The  very  mud  cried  out  for  blood 
To  the  thirsty  asphalte  ring  : 

And  we  knew  that  ere  one  dawn  grew  fair 
Some  prisoner  had  to  swing. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  285 


Right  in  we  went,  with  soul  intent 
On  Death  and  Dread  and  Doom  : 

The  hangman,  with  his  little  bag. 

Went  shuffling  through  the  gloom; 
And  each  man  trembled  as  he  crept 
Into  his  numbered  tomb. 

r 

That  night  the  empty  corridors 
Were  full  of  forms  of  Fear, 

And  up  and  down  the  iron  town 
Stole  feet  we  could  not  hear. 

And  through  the  bars  that  hide  the  stars 
White  faces  seemed  to  peer. 


He  lay  as  one  who  lies  and  dreams 
In  a pleasant  meadow-land. 

The  watchers  watched  him  as  he  slept. 
And  could  not  understand 
How  one  could  sleep  so  sweet  a sleep 
With  a hangman  close  at  hand. 


But  there  is  no  sleep  when  men  must  weep 
Who  never  yet  have  wept : 

So  we — the  fool,  the  fraud,  the  knave — 
That  endless  vigil  kept. 

And  through  each  brain  on  hands  of  pain 
Another’s  terror  crept. 


286 


POEMS 


Alas ! it  is  a fearful  thing 
To  feel  another’s  guilt! 

For,  right  within,  the  sword  of  Sin 
Pierced  to  its  poisoned  hilt. 

And  as  molten  lead  were  the  tears  we  shed 
For  the  blood  we  had  not  spilt. 


The  Warders  with  their  shoes  of  felt 
Crept  by  each  padlocked  door, 

And  peeped  and  saw,  with  eyes  of  awe, 

Grey  figures  on  the  floor. 

And  wondered  why  men  knelt  to  pray 
Who  never  prayed  before. 

All  through  the  night  we  knelt  and  prayed, 
Mad  mourners  of  a corse  ! 

The  troubled  plumes  of  midnight  were 
The  plumes  upon  a hearse  : 

And  bitter  wine  upon  a sponge 
Was  the  savour  of  Remorse. 


The  grey  cock  crew,  the  red  cock  crew. 
But  never  came  the  day  : 

And  crooked  shapes  of  Terror  crouched, 
In  the  corners  where  we  lay  : 

And  each  evil  sprite  that  walks  by  night 
Before  us  seemed  to  play. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  287 


They  glided  past^  they  glided  fast. 

Like  travellers  through  a mist : 

They  mocked  the  moon  in  a rigadoon 
Of  delicate  turn  and  twist. 

And  with  formal  pace  and  loathsome  grace 
The  phantoms  kept  their  tryst 


With  mop  and  mow,  we  saw  them  go. 

Slim  shadows  hand  in  hand  : 

About,  about,  in  ghostly  rout 
They  trod  a saraband : 

And  the  damned  grotesques  made  arabesques 
Like  the  wind  upon  the  sand ! 

With  the  pirouettes  of  marionettes. 

They  tripped  on  pointed  tread  : 

But  with  flutes  of  Fear  they  filled  the  ear. 
As  their  grisly  masque  they  led. 

And  loud  they  sang,  and  long  they  sang, 
For  they  sang  to  wake  the  dead. 


^ Oho  ! ’ they  cried,  ^ The  world  is  wide^ 
But  fettered  limbs  go  lame! 

And  once,  or  twice,  to  ihroiv  the  dice 
Is  a gentlemanly  game, 

But  he  does  not  win  who  plays  with  Sin 
In  the  secret  House  of  Shame,* 


288 


POEMS 


No  things  of  air  these  antics  were. 

That  frolicked  with  such  glee  : 

To  men  whose  lives  were  held  in  gyves, 

And  whose  feet  might  not  go  free, 

Ah!  wounds  of  Christ  I they  were  living 
things, 

Most  terrible  to  see. 


Around,  around,  they  waltzed  and  wound ; 

Some  wheeled  in  smirking  pairs ; 

With  the  mincing  step  of  a demirep 
Some  sidled  up  the  stairs : 

And  with  subtle  sneer,  and  fawning  leer, 
Each  helped  us  at  our  prayers. 


The  morning  wind  began  to  moan. 

But  still  the  night  went  on  : 

Through  its  giant  loom  the  web  of  gloom 
Crept  till  each  thread  was  spun : 

And,  as  we  prayed,  we  grew  afraid 
Of  the  Justice  of  the  Sun. 


The  moaning  wind  went  wandering  round 
The  weeping  prison-wall : 

Till  like  a wheel  of  turning  steel 
We  felt  the  minutes  crawl : 

O moaning  wind  ! what  had  we  done 
To  have  such  a seneschal } 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  289 


At  last  I saw  the  shadowed  bars. 

Like  a lattice  wrought  in  lead. 

Move  right  across  the  whitewashed  wall 
That  faced  my  three-plank  bed, 

And  I knew  that  somewhere  in  the  world 
God’s  dreadful  dawn  was  red. 


At  six  o’clock  we  cleaned  our  cells. 

At  seven  all  was  still. 

But  the  sough  and  swing  of  a mighty  wing 
The  prison  seemed  to  fill. 

For  the  Lord  of  Death  with  icy  breath 
Had  entered  in  to  kill. 


He  did  not  pass  in  purple  pomp, 

Nor  ride  a moon-white  steed. 

Three  yards  of  cord  and  a sliding  board 
Are  all  the  gallows’  need  ; 

So  with  rope  of  shame  the  Herald  came 
To  do  the  secret  deed. 


We  were  as  men  who  through  a fen 
Of  filthy  darkness  grope  : 

We  did  not  dare  to  breathe  a prayer. 
Or  to  give  our  anguish  scope  : 
Something  was  dead  in  each  of  us. 
And  what  was  dead  was  Hope. 


290 


POEMS 


For  Man’s  grim  Justice  goes  its  way. 
And  will  not  swerve  aside  : 

It  slays  the  weak,  it  slays  the  strong. 
It  has  a deadly  stride  ; 

With  iron  heel  it  slays  the  strong. 
The  monstrous  parricide  ! 


We  waited  for  the  stroke  of  eight : 

Each  tongue  was  thick  with  thirst : 

For  the  stroke  of  eight  is  the  stroke  of  F ite 
That  makes  a man  accursed. 

And  Fate  will  use  a running  noose 
For  the  best  man  and  the  worst. 


We  had  no  other  thing  to  do. 

Save  to  wait  for  the  sign  to  come : 

So,  like  things  of  stone  in  a valley  lone. 
Quiet  we  sat  and  dumb  ; 

But  each  man’s  heart  beat  thick  and  quick. 
Like  a madman  on  a drum ! 


With  sudden  shock  the  prison-clock 
Smote  on  the  shivering  air, 

And  from  all  the  gaol  rose  up  a wail 
Of  impotent  despair. 

Like  the  sound  that  frightened  marshes  hear 
From  some  leper  in  his  lair. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  291 


And  as  one  sees  most  fearful  things 
In  the  crystal  of  a dream. 

We  saw  the  greasy  hempen  rope 
Hooked  to  the  blackened  beam. 

And  heard  the  prayer  the  hangman’s  snare 
Strangled  into  a scream. 


And  all  the  woe  that  moved  him  so 
That  he  gave  that  bitter  cry, 

And  the  wild  regrets,  and  the  bloody  sweats, 
None  knew  so  well  as  I : 

For  he  who  lives  more  lives  than  one 
More  deaths  than  one  must  die. 


2d2 


POEMS 


IV 

There  is  no  chapel  on  the  day 
On  which  they  hang  a man ; 
The  Chaplain’s  heart  is  far  too  sick. 
Or  his  face  is  far  too  wan, 

Or  tliere  is  that  written  in  his  eyes 
Which  none  should  look  upon. 


So  they  kept  us  close  till  nigh  on  noon. 
And  then  they  rang  the  bell, 

And  the  Warders  with  their  jingling  keys 
Opened  each  listening  cell. 

And  down  the  iron  stair  we  tramped. 
Each  from  his  separate  Hell. 


Out  into  God’s  sweet  air  we  went, 

But  not  in  wonted  way. 

For  this  man’s  face  was  white  with  fear, 
And  that  man’s  face  was  grey. 

And  I never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 
So  wistfully  at  the  day. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  293 


I never  saw  sad  men  who  looked 
With  such  a wistful  eye 
Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 
We  prisoners  called  the  sky. 

And  at  every  careless  cloud  that  passed 
In  happy  freedom  by. 


But  there  were  those  amongst  us  all 
Who  walked  with  downcast  head. 
And  knew  that,  had  each  got  his  due, 
They  should  have  died  instead : 

He  had  but  killed  a thing  that  lived. 
Whilst  they  had  killed  the  dead. 


For  he  who  sins  a second  time 
Wakes  a dead  soul  to  pain. 

And  draws  it  from  its  spotted  shroud. 
And  makes  it  bleed  again, 

And  makes  it  bleed  great  gouts  of  blood, 
And  makes  it  bleed  in  vain ! 

r 

Like  ape  or  clown,  in  monstrous  garb 
With  crooked  arrows  starred. 

Silently  we  went  round  and  round 
The  slippery  asphalte  yard ; 

Silently  we  went  round  and  round. 

And  no  man  spoke  a word. 


294 


POEMS 


Silently  we  went  round  and  round. 
And  through  each  hollow  mind 
The  Memory  of  dreadful  things 
Rushed  like  a dreadful  M'ind, 

And  Horror  stalked  before  each  man, 
And  Terror  crept  behind. 


The  Warders  strutted  up  and  down, 

And  kej)t  their  herd  of  brutes, 

Their  uniforms  were  spick  and  span. 

And  they  wore  their  Sunday  suits, 

' But  we  knew  the  work  they  had  been  at, 
By  the  quicklime  on  their  boots. 


For  where  a grave  had  opened  wide. 
There  was  no  grave  at  all : 

Only  a stretch  of  mud  and  sand 
By  the  hideous  prison-wall, 

And  a little  heap  of  burning  lime. 
That  the  man  should  have  his  pall. 


For  he  has  a pall,  this  wretched  man, 
Such  as  few  men  can  claim  : 

Deep  down  below  a prison-yard, 
Naked  for  greater  shame. 

He  lies,  with  fetters  on  each  foot, 
Wrapt  in  a sheet  of  flame ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  295 


And  all  the  while  the  burning  lime 
Eats  flesh  and  bone  away, 

It  eats  the  brittle  bone  by  night. 
And  the  soft  flesh  by  day. 

It  eats  the  flesh  and  bone  by  turns. 
But  it  eats  the  heart  alway. 

? 


For  three  long  years  they  will  not  sow 
Or  root  or  seedling  there  : 

For  three  long  years  the  unblessed  spot 
Will  sterile  be  and  bare. 

And  look  upon  the  wondering  sky 
With  unreproachful  stare. 


They  think  a murderer’s  heart  would  taint 
Each  simple  seed  they  sow. 

It  is  not  true  ! God’s  kindly  earth 
Is  kindlier  than  men  know. 

And  the  red  rose  would  but  blow  more  red 
The  white  rose  whiter  blow. 


Out  of  his  mouth  a red,  red  rose  ! 

Out  of  his  heart  a white  ! 

For  who  can  say  by  what  strange  way, 
Christ  brings  His  will  to  light. 

Since  the  barren  staff  the  pilgrim  bore 
Bloomed  in  the  great  Pope’s  sight } 


296 


POEMS 


But  neither  milk-white  rose  nor  red 
May  bloom  in  prison-air; 

The  shard,  the  pebble,  and  the  flint. 
Are  what  they  give  us  there : 

For  flowers  have  been  known  to  heal 
common  man’s  despair. 


So  never  will  wine-red  rose  or  white, 
Petal  by  petal,  fall 

On  that  stretch  of  mud  and  sand  that  lies 
By  the  hideous  prison-wall. 

To  tell  the  men  who  tramp  the  yard 
That  God’s  Son  died  for  all. 

r 

Yet  though  the  hideous  prison-wall 
Still  hems  him  round  and  round, 

And  a spirit  may  not  walk  by  night 
That  is  with  fetters  bound, 

And  a spirit  may  but  weep  that  lies 
In  such  unholy  ground. 


He  is  at  peace — this  wretched  man — 
At  peace,  or  will  be  soon  ; 

There  is  no  thing  to  make  him  mad. 
Nor  does  Terror  walk  at  noon. 

For  the  lampless  Earth  in  which  he  lies 
Has  neither  Sun  nor  Moon. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  297 


They  hanged  him  as  a beast  is  hanged : 
They  did  not  even  toll 
A requiem  that  might  have  brought 
Rest  to  his  startled  soul. 

But  hurriedly  they  took  him  out, 

And  hid  him  in  a hole. 


They  stripped  him  of  his  canvas  clothes. 
And  gave  him  to  the  flies : 

They  mocked  the  swollen  purple  throat. 
And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes : 

And  with  laughter  loud  they  heaped  the 
shroud 

In  which  their  convict  lies. 


The  Chaplain  would  not  kneel  to  pray 
By  his  dishonoured  grave  : 

Nor  mark  it  with  that  blessed  Cross 
That  Christ  for  sinners  gave, 
Because  the  man  was  one  of  those 
Whom  Christ  came  down  to  save. 


Yet  all  is  well ; he  has  but  passed 
To  Life’s  appointed  bourne  : 

And  alien  tears  will  fill  for  him 
Pity’s  long-broken  urn. 

For  his  mourners  will  be  outcast  men. 
And  outcasts  always  mourn 


298 


POEMS 


V 

I KNOW  not  whether  Laws  be  right. 
Or  whether  Laws  be  wrong ; 

All  that  we  know  who  lie  in  gaol 
Is  that  the  wall  is  strong; 

And  that  each  day  is  like  a year, 

A year  whose  days  are  long. 


But  this  I know,  that  every  Law 
That  men  have  made  for  Man, 

Since  first  Man  took  his  brother’s  life, 
And  the  sad  world  began. 

But  straws  the  wheat  and  saves  the  chaff 
With  a most  evil  fan. 


This  too  I know — and  wise  it  were 
If  each  could  know  the  same — 

That  every  prison  that  men  build 
Is  built  with  bricks  of  shame. 

And  bound  with  bars  lest  Christ  should  sec 
How  men  their  brothers  maim. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  299 


With  bars  they  blur  the  gracious  moon. 

And  blind  the  goodly  sun  : 

And  they  do  well  to  hide  their  Hell, 

For  in  it  things  are  done 
That  Son  of  God  nor  son  of  Man 
Ever  should  look  upon  ! 

The  vilest  deeds  like  poison  weeds. 

Bloom  well  in  prison-air; 

It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 
That  wastes  and  withers  there : 

Pale  Anguish  keeps  the  heavy  gate. 

And  the  Warder  is  Despair. 

For  they  starve  the  little  frightened  child 
Till  it  weeps  both  night  and  day : 

And  they  scourge  the  weak,  and  flog  the 
fool, 

And  gibe  the  old  and  grey. 

And  some  grow  mad,  and  all  grow  bad. 

And  none  a word  may  say. 

Each  narrow  cell  in  which  we  dwell 
Is  a foul  and  dark  latrine. 

And  the  fetid  breath  of  living  Death 
Chokes  up  each  grated  screen. 

And  all,  but  Lust,  is  turned  to  dust 
In  Humanity’s  machine. 


300 


POEMS 


The  brackish  water  that  we  drink 
Creeps  with  a loathsome  slime. 

And  the  bitter  bread  they  weigh  in  scales 
Is  full  of  chalk  and  lime. 

And  Sleep  will  not  lie  down,  but  walks 
Wild-eyed,  and  cries  to  Time. 


But  though  lean  Hunger  and  green  Thirst 
Like  asp  with  adder  fight, 

We  have  little  care  of  prison  fare, 

For  what  chills  and  kills  outright 
Is  that  every  stone  one  lifts  by  day 
Becomes  one's  heart  by  night. 


With  midnight  always  in  one’s  heart. 
And  twilight  in  one’s  cell. 

We  turn  the  crank,  or  tear  the  rope. 
Each  in  his  separate  PI  ell. 

And  the  silence  is  more  awful  far 
Than  the  sound  of  a brazen  bell. 


And  never  a human  voice  comes  near 
To  speak  a gentle  word  : 

And  the  eye  that  watches  through  the  door 
Is  pitiless  and  hard  : 

And  by  all  forgot,  we  rot  and  rot. 

With  soul  and  body  marred. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  301 


And  thus  we  rust  Life's  iron  chain 
Degraded  and  alone : 

And  some  men  curse,  and  some  men  weep 
And  some  men  make  no  moan  : 

But  God’s  eternal  Laws  are  kind 
And  break  the  heart  of  stone. 

r 

And  every  human  heart  that  breaks. 

In  prison-cell  or  yard. 

Is  as  that  broken  box  that  gave 
Its  treasure  to  the  Lord, 

And  filled  the  unclean  leper’s  house 
With  the  scent  of  costliest  nard. 


Ah  ! happy  they  whose  hearts  can  break 
And  peace  of  pardon  win  ! 

How  else  may  man  make  straight  his  plan 
And  cleanse  his  soul  from  Sin  ? 

How  else  but  through  a broken  heart 
May  Lord  Christ  enter  in  ? 

? 

And  he  of  the  swollen  purple  throat. 

And  the  stark  and  staring  eyes. 

Waits  for  the  holy  hands  that  took 
The  Thief  to  Paradise  ; 

And  a broken  and  a contrite  heart 
The  Lord  will  not  despise. 


302 


POEMS 


The  man  in  red  who  reads  the  Law 
Gave  him  three  weeks  of  life. 
Three  little  weeks  in  which  to  heal 
His  soul  of  his  soul’s  strife. 

And  cleanse  from  every  blot  of  blood 
The  hand  that  held  the  knife. 


And  with  tears  of  blood  he  cleansed  the 
hand, 

The  hand  that  held  the  steel : 

For  only  blood  can  wipe  out  blood. 

And  only  tears  can  heal  : 

And  the  crimson  stain  that  was  of  Cain 
Became  Christ’s  snow-white  seal. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  READING  GAOL  303 


VI 

IN  Reading  gaol  by  Reading  town 
There  is  a pit  of  shame. 

And  in  it  lies  a wretched  man 
Eaten  by  teeth  of  flame. 

In  a burning  winding-sheet  he  lies. 

And  his  grave  has  got  no  name. 

And  there,  till  Christ  call  forth  the  dead, 
In  silence  let  him  lie : 

No  need  to  waste  the  foolish  tear, 

Or  heave  the  windy  sigh  : 

The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved, 
And  so  he  had  to  die. 


And  all  men  kill  the  thing  they  love. 

By  all  let  this  be  heard, 

Some  do  it  with  a bitter  look, 

Some  with  a flattering  word. 

The  coward  does  it  with  a kiss, 

The  brave  man  with  a sword  I 


Newdigate  Prize  Poem 


RAVENNA 

Recited  in  the  Sheldonian  Theatre 
Oxford 

June  26th,  1878 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

GEORGE  FLEMING 

AUTHOR  OF 

*TBS  NUiB  novel’  and  ‘ MIRAGE 


V 


RAVENNA 


I 

A YEAR  ago  I breathed  the  Italian  air, — 

And  yet,  me  thinks  this  northern  Spring 
is  fair, — 

These  fields  made  golden  with  the  flower  of 
March, 

The  throstle  singing  on  the  feathered  larch. 

The  cawing  rooks,  the  wood-doves  fluttering  by, 
The  little  clouds  that  race  across  the  sky ; 

And  fair  the  violet’s  gentle  drooping  head. 

The  primrose,  pale  for  love  uncomforted. 

The  rose  tliat  burgeons  on  the  climbing  briar. 
The  crocus-bed,  (that  seems  a moon  of  fire 
Round-girdled  with  a purple  marriage-ring) ; 

And  all  the  flowers  of  our  English  Spring, 

Fond  snowdrops,  and  the  bright-starred,  daffodil. 
Up  starts  the  lark  beside  the  murmuring  mill. 
And  breaks  the  gossamer-threads  of  early  dew ; 
And  down  the  river,  like  a flame  of  blue. 

Keen  as  an  arrow  flies  the  water-king. 

While  the  brown  linnets  in  the  greenwood  sing, 

A year  ago  ! — it  seems  a little  time 

Since  last  I saw  that  lordly  southern  clime, 

807 


308 


POEMS 


Where  flower  and  fruit  to  purple  radiance  blow, 
And  like  bright  lamps  the  fabled  apples  glow. 
Full  Spring  it  was — and  by  rich  flowering  vines, 
Dark  olive-groves  and  noble  forest-pines, 

I rode  at  will ; the  moist  glad  air  was  sweet. 

The  white  road  rang  beneath  my  horse’s  feet. 
And  musing  on  Ravenna’s  ancient  name, 

I w’atched  the  day  till,  marked  with  wounds  of 
flame. 

The  turquoise  sky  to  burnished  gold  was  turned. 

O how  my  heart  with  boyish  passion  burned. 
When  far  away  across  the  sedge  and  mere 
I saw  that  Holy  City  rising  clear, 

Crowned  wuth  her  crown  of  towers  ! — On  and  on 
I galloped,  racing  with  the  setting  sun, 

And  ere  the  crimson  after-glow  was  passed, 

I stood  within  Ravenna’s  walls  at  last ! 

II 

How  strangely  still ! no  sound  of  life  or  joy 
Startles  the  air ; no  laughing  shepherd-boy 
Pipes  on  his  reed,  nor  ever  through  the  day 
Comes  the  glad  sound  of  children  at  their  play : 
O sad,  and  sweet,  and  silent ! surely  here 
A man  might  dwell  apart  from  troublous  fear. 
Watching  the  tide  of  seasons  as  they  flow 
From  amorous  Spring  to  Winter’s  rain  and 
snow, 


RAVENNA 


S09 


And  have  no  thought  of  sorrow ; — here,  indeed, 
Are  Lethe’s  waters,  and  that  fatal  weed 
Which  makes  a man  forget  his  fatherland. 

Ay  ! amid  lotus-meadows  dost  thou  stand. 

Like  Proserpine,  with  poppy-laden  head. 
Guarding  the  holy  ashes  of  the  dead. 

For  though  thy  brood  of  warrior  sons  hath 
ceased. 

Thy  noble  dead  are  with  thee  ! — they  at  least 
Are  faithful  to  thine  hoi^our  ; — guard  them  well. 
O childless  city!  for  a mighty  spell. 

To  wake  men’s  hearts  to  dreaihs  of  things  sub- 
lime. 

Are  the  lone  tombs  where  rest  the  Great  of 
Time, 


III 

Yon  lonely  pillar,  rising  on  the  plain, 

Marks  where  the  bravest  knight  of  France  was 
slain, — 

The  Prince  of  chivalry,  the  Lord  of  war, 

Gaston  de  Foix  ; for  some  untimely  star 
Led  him  against  thy  city,  and  he  fell. 

As  falls  some  forest-lion  fighting  well. 

Taken  from  life  while  life  and  love  were  new, 

He  lies  beneath  God’s  seamless  veil  of  blue ; 

Tall  lance-like  reeds  wave  sadly  o’er  his  head, 
And  oleanders  bloom  to  deeper  red, 


310 


POEMS 


Where  his  bright  youth  flowed  crimson  on  the 
ground. 

Look  farther  north  unto  that  broken  mound, — 
There,  prisoned  now  within  a lordly  tomb 
Raised  by  a daughter’s  hand,  in  lonely  gloom, 
Huge-limbed  Theodoric,  the  Gothic  king, 

Sleeps  after  all  his  weary  conquering. 

Time  hath  not  spared  his  ruin, — wind  and  rain 
Have  broken  down  his  stronghold  ; and  again 
We  see  that  Death  is  mighty  lord  of  all. 

And  king  and  clown  to  ashen  dust  must  falL 

Mighty  indeed  their  glory  1 yet  to  me 
Barbaric  king,  or  knight  of  chivalry. 

Or  the  great  queen  herself,  were  poor  and  vain. 
Beside  the  grave  where  Dante  rests  from  pain. 
His  gilded  shrine  lies  open  to  the  air ; 

And  cunning  sculptor  s hands  have  carven  there 
The  calm  white  brow,  as  calm  as  earliest  morn. 
The  eyes  that  flashed  with  passionate  love  and 
scorn. 

The  lips  that  sang  of  Heaven  and  of  Hell, 

The  almond-face  which  Giotto  drew  so  well. 

The  weary  face  of  Dante ; — to  this  day. 

Here  in  his  place  of  resting,  far  away 
From  Arno’s  yellow  waters,  rushing  down 
Through  the  wide  bridges  of  that  fairy  town, 
Where  the  tall  tower  of  Giotto  seems  to  rise 
A marble  lily  under  sapphire  skies ! 


RAVENNA 


311 


Alas  ! my  Dante  ! thou  hast  known  the  pain 
Of  meaner  lives, — the  exile’s  galling  chain. 

How  steep  the  stairs  within  kings’  houses  are. 
And  all  the  petty  miseries  which  mar 
Man’s  nobler  nature  with  the  sense  of  wrong. 

Yet  this  dull  world  is  grateful  for  thy  song ; 

Our  nations  do  thee  homage, — even  she, 

That  cruel  queen  of  vine-clad  Tuscany, 

Who  bound  with  crown  of  thorns  thy  living 
brow, 

Hath  decked  thine  empty  tomb  with  laurels 
now, 

And  begs  in  vain  the  ashes  of  her  son. 

O mightiest  exile  ! all  thy  grief  is  done  : 

Thy  soul  walks  now  beside  thy  Beatrice ; 
Ravenna  guards  thine  ashes  : sleep  in  peace. 


IV 

How  lone  this  palace  is  ; how  grey  the  walls ! 
No  minstrel  now  wakes  echoes  in  these  halls. 
The  broken  chain  lies  rusting  on  the  door. 

And  noisome  weeds  have  split  the  marble 
floor : 

Here  lurks  the  snake,  and  here  the  lizards  run 
By  the  stone  lions  blinking  in  the  sun. 

Byron  dwelt  here  in  love  and  revelry 
For  two  long  years — a second  Anthony, 


312 


POEMS 


Who  of  the  world  another  Actium  made  ! 

Yet  suffered  not  his  royal  soul  to  fade. 

Or  lyre  to  break,  or  lance  to  grow  less  keen, 
’Neath  any  wiles  of  an  Egyptian  queen. 

For  from  the  East  there  came  a mighty  cry, 

And  Greece  stood  up  to  fight  for  Liberty, 

And  called  him  from  Ravenna : never  knight 
Rode  forth  more  nobly  to  wild  scenes  of  fight  ! 
None  fell  more  bravely  on  ensanguined  field. 
Borne  like  a Spartan  back  upon  his  shield ! 

O Hellas  ! Hellas ! in  thine  hour  of  pride. 

Thy  day  of  might,  remember  him  who  died 
To  wrest  from  off  thy  limbs  the  trammelling 
chain  : 

O Salamis  ! O lone  Platsean  plain  ! 

O tossing  waves  of  wild  Euboean  sea  ! 

O wind-swept  heights  of  lone  Thermopylae ! 

He  loved  you  well — ay,  not  alone  in  word. 

Who  freely  gave  to  thee  his  lyre  and  sword. 

Like  iEschylos  at  well-fought  Marathon : 

And  England,  too,  shall  glory  in  her  son. 

Her  warrior-poet,  first  in  song  and  fight. 

No  longer  now  shall  Slander  s venomed  spite 
Crawl  like  a snake  across  his  perfect  name. 

Or  mar  the  lordly  scutcheon  of  his  fame. 

For  as  the  olive-garland  of  the  race, 

Wl\ich  lights  with  joy  each  eager  runner’s 
face, 


RAVENNA 


313 


As  the  red  cross  which  saveth  men  in  war, 

As  a flame-bearded  beacon  seen  from  far 
By  mariners  upon  a storm- tossed  sea, — 

Such  was  his  love  for  Greece  and  Liberty  ! 

Byron,  thy  crowns  are  ever  fresh  and  green  : 
Red  leaves  of  rose  from  Sapphic  Mitylene 
Shall  bind  thy  brows;  the  myrtle  blooms  for 
thee. 

In  hidden  glades  by  lonely  Castaly  ; 

The  laurels  wait  thy  coming : all  are  thine. 

And  round  thy  head  one  perfect  wreath  will 
twine. 


V 

The  pine-tops  rocked  before  the  evening 
breeze 

With  the  hoarse  murmur  of  the  wintry  seas, 

And  the  tall  stems  were  streaked  with  amber 
bright ; — 

I wandered  through  the  wood  in  wild  delight. 
Some  startled  bird,  with  fluttering  wings  and  fleet, 
Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms  ; at  my  feet. 

Like  silver  crowns,  the  pale  narcissi  lay. 

And  small  birds  sang  on  every  twining  spray. 

O waving  trees,  O forest  liberty  ! 

Within  your  haunts  at  least  a man  is  free, 

And  half  forgets  the  weary  world  of  strife  : 

The  blood  flows  hotter,  and  a sense  of  life 


314 


POEMS 


Wakes  i’  the  quickening  veins,  while  once  again 
The  woods  are  filled  witli  gods  we  fancied 
slain. 

Long  time  I watched,  and  surely  hoped  to  see 
Some  goat-foot  Pan  make  merry  minstrelsy 
Amid  the  reeds  ! some  startled  Dryad-maid 
In  girlish  flight ! or  lurking  in  the  glade. 

The  soft  brown  limbs,  the  wanton  treacherous 
face 

Of  woodland  god  ! Queen  Dian  in  the  chase. 
White-limbed  and  terrible,  with  look  of  pride. 
And  leash  of  boar-hounds  leaping  at  her  side  1 
Or  Hylas  mirrored  in  the  perfect  stream. 

O idle  heart ! O fond  Hellenic  dream ! 

Ere  long,  with  melancholy  rise  and  swell. 

The  evening  chimes,  the  convent’s  vesper  bell. 
Struck  on  mine  ears  amid  the  amorous  flowers. 
Alas  I alas  ! these  sweet  and  honied  hours 
Had  whelmed  my  heart  like  some  encroaching 
sea. 

And  drowned  all  thoughts  of  black  Gethsemane. 
VI 

O lone  Ravenna  ! many  a tale  is  told 
Of  thy  great  glories  in  the  days  of  old  : 

Two  thousand  years  have  passed  since  thou 
didst  see 

Caesar  ride  forth  to  royal  victory. 


RAVENNA 


315 


Mighty  thy  name  when  Rome’s  lean  eagles  flew 
From  Britain’s  isles  to  far  Euphrates  blue ; 

And  of  the  peoples  thou  wast  noble  queen. 

Till  in  thy  streets  the  Goth  and  Hun  were  seen. 
Discrowned  by  man,  deserted  by  the  sea. 

Thou  sleepest,  rocked  in  lonely  misery  ! 

No  longer  now  upon  thy  swelling  tide. 
Pine-forest-like,  thy  myriad  galleys  ride  ! 

For  where  the  brass-beaked  ships  were  wont  to 
float. 

The  weary  shepherd  pipes  his  mournful  note ; 
And  the  white  sheep  are  free  to  come  and  go 
Where  Adria’s  purple  waters  used  to  flow. 

O fair ! O sad  ! O Queen  uncomforted ! 

In  ruined  loveliness  thou  Rest  dead. 

Alone  of  all  thy  sisters  ; for  at  last 
Italia’s  royal  warrior  hath  passed 
Rome’s  lordliest  entrance,  and  hath  worn  his 
crown 

In  the  high  temples  of  the  Eternal  Town  ! 

The  Palatine  hath  welcomed  back  her  king. 

And  with  his  name  the  seven  mountains  ring ! 

And  Naples  hath  outlived  her  dream  of  pain. 
And  mocks  her  tyrant ! Venice  lives  again. 

New  risen  from  the  waters ! and  the  cry 
Of  Light  and  Truth,  of  Love  and  Liberty, 

Is  heard  in  lordly  Genoa,  and  where 
The  marble  spires  of  Milan  wound  the  air. 


316 


POEMS 


Rings  from  the  Alps  to  the  Sicilian  shore, 

And  Dante’s  dream  is  now  a dream  no  more. 

But  thou,  Ravenna,  better  loved  than  all, 

Thy  ruined  palaces  are  but  a pall 
That  hides  thy  fallen  greatness ! and  thy  name 
Burns  like  a grey  and  flickering  candle-flame 
Beneath  the  noonday  splendour  of  the  sun 
Of  newTtalia  ! for  the  night  is  done. 

The  night  of  dark  oppression,  and  the  day 
Hath  dawned  in  passionate  splendour : far  away 
The  Austrian  hounds  are  hunted  from  the  land, 
Beyond  those  ice-crowned  citadels  which  stand 
Girdling  the  plain  of  royal  Lombardy, 

From  the  far  West  unto  the  Eastern  sea. 

I know,  indeed,  that  sons  of  thine  have  died 
In  Lissa’s  waters,  by  the  mountain-side 
Of  Aspromonte,  on  Novara’s  plain, — 

Nor  have  thy  children  died  for  thee  in  vain  : 

And  yet,  methinks,  thou  hast  not  drunk  this 
wine 

From  grapes  new-crushed  of  Liberty  divine, 
Thou  hast  not  followed  that  immortal  Star 
Which  leads  the  people  forth  to  deeds  of  war. 
Weary  of  life,  thou  best  in  silent  sleep. 

As  one  who  marks  the  lengthening  shadows 
creep, 

Careless  of  all  the  hurrying  hours  that  run. 
Mourning  some  day  of  glory,  for  the  sun 


RAVENNA 


317 


Of  Freedom  hath  not  shewn  to  thee  his  face. 
And  thou  hast  caught  no  flambeau  in  the  race. 

Yet  wake  not  from  thy  slumbers, — rest  thee 
well. 

Amidst  thy  fields  of  amber  asphodel. 

Thy  lily-sprinkled  meadows, — rest  thee  there, 

To  mock  all  human  greatness  : who  would  dare 
To  vent  the  paltry  sorrows  of  his  life 
Before  thy  ruins,  or  to  praise  the  strife 
Of  kings’  ambition,  and  the  barren  pride 
0£  warring  nations  ! wert  not  tliou  the  Bride 
Of  the  wild  Lord  of  Adria’s  stormy  sea ! 

The  Queen  of  double  Empires  ! and  to  thee 
Were  not  the  nations  given  as  thy  prey  ! 

And  now — thy  gates  lie  open  night  and  day. 

The  grass  grows  green  on  every  tower  and  hall. 
The  ghastly  fig  hath  cleft  thy  bastioned  wall ; 
And  where  thy  mailed  warriors  stood  at  rest 
The  midnight  owl  hath  made  her  secret  nest. 

O fallen  ! fallen  ! from  thy  high  estate, 

O city  trammelled  in  the  toils  of  Fate, 

Doth  nought  remain  of  all  thy  glorious  days. 

But  a dull  shield,  a crown  of  withered  bays ! 

Yet  who  beneath  this  night  of  wars  and  fears. 
From  tranquil  tower  can  watch  the  coming 
years ; 

Who  can  foretell  what  joys  the  day  shall  bring. 
Or  why  before  the  dawn  the  linnets  sing  ? 


S18 


POEMS 


Thou,  even  thou,  mayst  wake,  as  wakes  the  rost 
To  crimson  splendour  from  its  grave  of  snows  ; 
As  the  rich  corn-fields  rise  to  red  and  gold 
From  these  brown  lands,  now  stiff  with  Winter’s 
cold ; 

As  from  the  storm-rack  comes  a perfect  star ! 

O much-loved  city  ! I have  wandered  far 
From  the  wave-circled  islands  of  my  home; 

Have  seen  the  gloomy  mystery  of  the  Dome 
Rise  slowly  from  the  drear  Campagna’s  way. 
Clothed  in  the  royal  purple  of  the  day : 

I from  the  city  of  the  violet  crowm 
Have  watched  the  sun  by  Corinth’s  hill  go  down, 
And  marked  the  'myriad  laughter’  of  the  sea 
From  starlit  hills  of  flow^er-starred  Arcady; 

Yet  back  to  thee  returns  my  perfect  love. 

As  to  its  forest-nest  the  evening  dove. 

O poet’s  city ! one  who  scarce  has  seen 
Some  twenty  summers  cast  their  doublets  green 
For  Autumn’s  livery,  would  seek  in  vain 
To  wake  his  lyre  to  sing  a louder  strain, 

Or  tell  thy  days  of  glory ; — poor  indeed 
Is  the  low  murmur  of  the  shepherd’s  reed, 

Where  the  loud  clarion’s  blast  should  shake 
the  sky. 

And  flame  across  the  heavens  ! and  to  try 
Such  lofty  themes  w'ere  folly : yet  I know 
That  never  felt  my  heart  a nobler  glow 


RAVENNA 


319 


Than  when  I woke  the  silence  of  thy  street 
With  clamorous  trampling  of  my  horse’s  feet. 
And  saw  the  city  which  now  I try  to  sing. 

After  long  days  of  weary  travelling. 

VII 

Adieu,  Ravenna ! but  a year  ago, 

I stood  and  watched  the  crimson  sunset  glow 
From  the  lone  chapel  on  thy  marshy  plain  : 

The  sky  was  as  a shield  that  caught  the  stain 
Of  blood  and  battle  from  the  dying  sun, 

And  in  the  west  the  circling  clouds  had  spun 
A royal  robe,  which  some  great  God  might 
wear. 

While  into  ocean-seas  of  purple  air 
Sank  the  gold  galley  of  the  Lord  of  Light. 

Yet  here  the  gentle  stillness  of  the  night 
Brings  back  the  swelling  tide  of  memory. 

And  wakes  Again  my  passionate  love  for  thee : 
Now  is  the  Spring  of  Love,  yet  soon  will  come 
On  meadow  and  tree  the  Summer’s  lordly 
bloom ; 

And  soon  the  grass  with  brighter  flowers  will 
blow. 

And  send  up  lilies  for  some  boy  to  mow. 

Then  before  long  the  Summer’s  conqueror. 

Rich  Autumn-time,  the  season’s  usurer. 

Will  lend  his  hoarded  gold  to  all  the  treeg. 


320 


POEMS 


Aiid  see  it  scattered  by  the  spendthrift  breeze ; 
And  after  that  the  Winter  cold  and  drear. 

So  runs  the  perfect  cycle  of  the  year. 

And  so  from  youth  to  manhood  do  we  go. 

And  fall  to  weary  days  and  locks  of  snow. 

Love  only  knows  no  winter;  never  dies: 

Nor  cares  for  frowning  storms  or  leaden  skies 
And  mine  for  thee  shall  never  pass  away. 
Though  my  weak  lips  may  falter  in  my  lay. 

Adieu  ! Adieu  ! yon  silent  evening  star. 

The  night’s  ambassador,  doth  gleam  afar, 

And  bid  the  shepherd  bring  his  flocks  to  fold. 
Perchance  before  our  inland  seas  of  gold 
Are  garnered  by  the  reapers  into  sheaves. 
Perchance  before  I see  the  Autumn  leaves, 

I may  behold  thy  city ; and  lay  down 
Low  at  thy  feet  the  poet's  laurel  crown. 

Adieu ! Adieu  ! yon  silver  lamp,  the  moon. 
Which  turns  our  midnight  into  perfect  noon, 
Doth  surely  light  thy  towers,  guarding  well 
Where  Dante  sleeps,  where  Byron  loved  U 
dwell. 


1 3 164 


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